Oddly enough, I remember the precise moment I realized I was a grown-up, and no longer thought of myself as the “skinny girl.” I was 18 and considered a late bloomer. I never really knew what those words meant exactly, but in that moment it became very clear.
I was in the PX. For those of you not accustomed to the Army’s verbiage it’s an acronym for something I used to remember but have long since forgotten. It’s where you shopped, like a department store.
I even remember what I was wearing. It was in the fall of 1973 but still warm in Ft. Hood, Texas so I was faddishly dressed in hip-hugger, bell-bottom, corduroy slacks and a white halter-top. The slacks were a bright orange. My white sandals and matching white leather belt completed the ensemble. My long, straight hair hung to the middle of my back, Cher-like. I was stylin’, man!
I was dashing downstairs in search of something I can’t recall and two fatigue-clad soldiers were coming upstairs.
It must have been getting close to Christmas because one of them said to the other, “Now that’s what I want in my Christmas stocking!”
He was talking about me! I stopped in my tracks. Nobody had ever said anything like that about me that I knew of. I realized I was a woman and no longer the “skinny girl”.
By “skinny girl” I mean I was the brunt of jokes you may or may not have heard. The one about turning sideways and disappearing; and then there’s the one about turning sideways, sticking out your tongue and looking like a zipper; or the equally not-so-funny one about being embarrassed with a red face and accused of being a thermometer.
Yes, I had very small breasts, my bones stuck out everywhere, knees, elbows, shoulder blades, even my ankles seemed too large. I just couldn’t gain weight. I ate ice cream, fattening, fried foods and literally mounds of mashed potatoes. Nothing worked until I finally got on birth control pills and gained those precious ten pounds I so desperately needed. I had finally grown into my body. That’s what being a “late bloomer” is, late to bloom into your body.
Since I hadn’t had that kind of appreciation before I had developed a very keen sense of humor. When you don’t have the “looks” you get by any way you can. I had honed sarcasm to a fine point. I was the class clown in school, always looking for ways to make everyone laugh. Like all high school teens I felt the need to be accepted any way I could.
In that moment I realized not only did I apparently have the looks, but also a respectable body, a sense of humor and, guess what; I had a brain, too! Was the world ready for me?
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