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would ask each other for a tampon or a pad, and then launch into
a heated tampon-versus-pad discussion, which segued into conver-
sations about boys Do you really think he likes me, as in like-like
me? When it came to feminine products, I d smile and pretend I
knew what I was talking about. I was a staunch pad supporter
because I didn t know how to use a tampon, even though Christy
explained it to me several times and even drew diagrams, which I
squirreled away in my nightstand for when I d need them. I figured
I d support the feminine product that mystified me less.
Oh my God, I totally use Always Ultra with Wings, too. The
Dri-Weave like totally works.
Everything I knew about being a woman, I learned from Christy
or commercials. Christy knew I hadn t gotten my first period, but
she didn t care. I don t think anyone in school actually cared,
except for me. Christy helped me create the illusion of woman-
hood by talking periods with me and I was grateful. I believed that
menstruation was a requirement to fit in, just like MC Hammer
pants and high-top sneakers.
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happy birthday or w hatever
The rungs of my junior high s social ladder were made of femi-
nine products. Just by asking Laura Paris if you could have a tam-
pon, you established three things:
1. You were a woman.
2. You knew that Laura was a tampon supporter.
3. You were personal enough with Laura to ask
for a tampon.
If Laura presented you with a tampon, you established three
things:
1. You were a woman.
2. You were like totally cool.
3. She would one day ask you for a tampon,
thereby forging a relationship between two
mature women in which you could do womanly
things together, like drink coffee and talk about
how annoying men are.
Sometimes I d ask a fellow woman for a pad, just to gain some
menstrual cred. Then I d stow it in my locker, hoping that one day
I d use it. I was worried. What if they found out I wasn t a woman
at all? What if I never became a woman? What if I had to pretend
to feel bloated and get cramps for the rest of my life? How would
I get out of gym class?
Because my ovaries were in a deep coma and possibly dead, I
was short, skinny, and flat in eighth grade. If I turned to the side,
I d disappear almost completely. The boys began snapping bra
straps, and girls would giggle in response, happy that they were
getting attention from the opposite sex, even if it was childish and
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perhaps a little painful. I was paralyzed with fear. I had no bra to
snap. I began wearing white undershirts and folding them up so
that they looked like sports bras. Perhaps I could fool them. The
day Jon Thomas grasped for my back, he took a handful of tank
top. He thought he had missed. I was relieved to tears.
When we reached ninth grade, Christy and I went to sepa-
rate high schools. I would have to face womanhood without my
woman. Every single girl in high school wore a bra and they all
needed one even the small, skinny girls (who were still signifi-
cantly taller and heavier than me). In the locker room, women
openly mentioned their unmentionables, oh did you get a new bra?
Yeah totally I got it from Victoria s Secret. Oh my God it is so
cute! Before and after track-and-field practice, I made sure that no
one would discover that I didn t wear a bra and didn t even need
one. I would change in the bathroom stalls or wait until women
had left the locker room. I was late to practice most of the time and
as a result, my coach made me run extra laps around the track. Still,
jogging an extra mile didn t take nearly as much energy as pretend-
ing to be a woman.
But soon I became desperate. I was fourteen years old, with no
hair, rack, or rear in sight. Anyone could confuse my back for my
chest. I had the body of a nine-year-old boy. It was time for serious
measures.
I had always pictured a moment where I would walk with my
mother around a lake and tell her how I had become a woman.
Everything would be beautiful and soft. There d be a lot of ducks.
We d be wearing flowing white dresses and she d give me a hug
and a box of Tampax.
Since our family didn t live near a lake and I hadn t gotten my
period, my fantasy of connecting with my mother over plastic
applicators dissipated. I sighed and walked into the kitchen. She
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happy birthday or whatever
was rinsing rice, and I watched her pour out the white, cloudy
water into the sink.
Mom, I m not a woman yet.
What?
I haven t gotten my period yet.
Anne, you worry too much. Why you want period?
Everyone else has it. I should have it, too.
I tell you, when you get period, you not want it.
But I want it. And I don t have it. There must be something
wrong with me. Like I m missing a tube or I have no eggs or some-
thing. Maybe I should see a doctor.
You know Mommy got period late so you get late too. Anne,
you normal, only crazy. Maybe you can see acupuncture.
No, no needles, I can t do it. OK, fine, can I at least buy a bra?
Why you want bra? You have no breast!
I must ve looked wounded because an hour later we arrived at
the Promenade Mall. We walked into Robinson s intimates depart-
ment, where I spied an eleven-year-old woman picking bras off the
B-cup rack. She held up a white lacy one and showed her mother,
who seemed to approve. I wished the entire store were empty so I
could be alone in my embarrassment; there were hundreds of bras in
every shape and color and I was sure none of them would fit me.
Excuse me! Excuse me! Hello!
I whipped my head around and saw my mother shuffling up to
a store clerk.
Yes, how may I help you?
Where I can find bra very small? For my daughter . . . Anne,
where you are? Anne!
I ducked down behind a rack of nightgowns and robes and
hoped the entire world would go boom. Nuclear fallout was a
more merciful way to die than embarrassment.
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Pe r i od Pi e c e
Jockey makes a nice set of training bras. All cotton and very
plain.
Oh good, good, my daughter like plain. But has to be small.
I buried my face in a robe and wondered if I could hang myself
with the sash.
Yes, we have them and they re on sale. You can look over
there.
I poked my head out from the rack and saw the clerk point.
I followed the direction of her finger and saw gigantic red sign
that said PRICE BLOWOUT! AAA-AA CUPS ON SALE!
EXTRA 10% TAKEN OFF AT REGISTER. All it needed was
sirens and a flashing neon arrow. I gasped and my mother spot-
ted me and dragged me to the rack. I looked around nervously,
hoping I wouldn t see anyone from school. She held up a pink
cotton bra.
How about this?
OK-sure-looks-good-I ll-try-it-on-bye! I grabbed the bra and
sprinted to the dressing room.
My mother passed me a hundred bras underneath the dressing
room door and I refused to show her how they fit. Because they
didn t. I cursed my ovaries and then pleaded with them: I hate you,
you re ruining my life, no wait, I don t mean that, please wake up, please
don t do this to me.
Anne, you take too long. How about this? She passed over
another bra.
No it doesn t fit. Give me the size down.
OK Mommy go look.
In the dressing room mirror, I stared at the baggy, white bra.
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