4. the care and keeping of me
AKA the training bra incident of 2010.
My favorite thing to ask people is what their most embarrassing moment is. It’s a quick question, but every person’s response shows so much about them and what they deem “embarrassing”. I want to share mine, because lately this page has gotten dark and existential, and I thought maybe sharing a funny story about myself would lighten things up. But fair warning, this is very embarrassing - so if you’ve ever had a crush on me please stop reading to protect yourself from the ick I am about to unleash.
When I was ten the girls in my grade started wearing training bras. Loose cotton fabric that came in a pack of 3 at any store, these bras were a right of passage for girls as they started to develop and go through puberty. Although I probably needed one, I hated the thought of wearing one. I thought the minute I put one on, I became a woman. People would look at me differently. People would call me “ma’am.”
Even more so, I didn’t want my mom to find out I was wearing one. An eager woman, my mom was more excited about me going through puberty than I was. She cried tears of joy when I got my period at the ripe age of nine (yes. nine. in fourth grade) buying me a necklace embedded with a quote about growing up. When I had my first kiss when I was twelve - shoving a boy’s face into mine in the seventh-grade hallway of our middle school - she was quick to tell the rest of my family. My dad breached the topic a few days later in the car by asking “So, did sparks fly?” I knew that if she saw I was wearing training bras to school, she would be so excited at my development and maturity that the entire world would find out. She would bring it up at dinner in an unsuccessfully discreet way in front of my dad and brother - “Was it comfortable?” I imagined her asking over chicken and potatoes. I couldn’t have that happen, so I decided I wouldn’t wear one at all.
At school one day, I was running laps with a group of girls during PE class. We were talking about normal girl things - who we liked, what book we were reading, had we watched the new iCarly where Sam and Freddie kissed. The topic moved to training bras and suddenly a pact was made. We would all wear one the next day at school. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but the next thing I knew we were shaking hands and pinky promising each other. Our code was snapping one of the straps on our shoulders if we did that the next day that meant we hadn’t chickened out.
I went home and stared at my training bra. This tiny piece of fabric caused so much anxiety in me. Why? What was the big deal? It would be fine! I assured myself that one day of wearing it would be fine. It wouldn’t make me age rapidly. I would still be an average ten-year-old. I would survive this.
The next morning I woke up and put it on. I looked at myself in the mirror. I still looked the same. In fact, it made me look more like a child - the small triangles that covered me showed how little I had to cover in the first place. I put my shirt on over the bra and started to feel confident. I actually kind of liked it. I felt like I had this little secret with myself. No one needed to know.
I went to school that day and made the strap signal to my friends. Two other girls signaled back and one chickened out. I was happy I wasn’t her. This proved I was strong. Confident. A woman! After school, I took it off and threw it in my laundry basket. I had marks from where the straps dug into my shoulders and sides. Although empowering, wearing it was not comfortable. I decided I would wait a little while before I wore it again. One day was enough.
A few days later I noticed the laundry basket in my room was gone. At first, this didn’t phase me - Mom is probably just doing laundry. MY laundry. SHIT. Mom is gonna see the bra. I rushed downstairs to the laundry room and saw my mom with my laundry basket. She was about to start going through it and putting things into the washer. I lunged with my entire body, grabbing the basket from in front of her. “NO!” I shouted. “What? What are you hiding?” My mom said. “Nothing!” but with the panic I just displayed this was not a believable response. “What is it?” I could tell she was getting anxious herself. Her mind was going to the worst possible explanations. Was her ten-year-old on drugs? Was she drinking? Still, I couldn’t tell her the truth.
I tried to explain that it wasn’t anything bad, I just wanted to do my laundry on my own. “What could it be?” she asked. “What did you poop your pants or something?”
“Yes.”
Instead of telling my mom I wore a training bra one day at school, I thought it would be better to just tell her I had shit myself instead.
“Oh. Okay, yeah. Grab whatever you need and just... just throw it away.” I grabbed the bra and went upstairs and put it back in my underwear drawer. In my mind, a crisis was averted. Thank god she didn’t know. I could live with her thinking I pooped myself. I could never live with her thinking of me as an adult.
The lie didn’t come back to bite me in the ass right away. But a few days later my dad brought me to dinner so we could spend some time together. The minute we sat down he started to laugh. “Mom told me you pooped your pants.” Nothing was sacred in our house.