She stood in front of the mirror in the locker room.
“My mother says they’re water blemishes, not real pimples,” She said to the gaggle of girls gathered around her.
Water blemishes? I looked doubtfully at her reflection. They looked like normal pimples to me.
I hadn’t changed yet. I didn’t like changing clothes. Partially that was because I was self-conscious about my thighs which, to me, seemed like hams attached to my too-short legs. It was also because I was getting breasts. I was both excited and embarrassed by them. Getting breasts was like getting mono. It was titillating, so long as it wasn’t you who got them. She didn’t have breasts; her chest was concave and somehow didn’t look bad on her tall slim body.
When I was changing, I really didn’t like my breasts, nor my ugly A-cup no-frills bra bought at the discount department store.
But delaying really never stopped anything. I pulled out my sweats. They were gray flannel – a matching set. I liked the pants because they were roomy, with a finished hem instead of elastic at the ankles, which somehow made them more flattering (at least, I thought so). The top was also a bit more tailored than the usual sweatshirt,with long sleeves, but it was still roomy enough for me (and my breasts) to feel inconspicuous.
Outside it was a bright late-spring day in Northern California. It was early afternoon, but already warm enough for me to smell the earthy dust from the nearby football field, on which the grass was withering from drought-inspired water rationing. The endless asphalt track ringed the field, and it was where PE would start today.
Today we’d be tested for appropriate physical fitness. We’d be subjected to push-ups, sit-ups, running a mile. It was mile time.
She, in her short shorts with her gazelle legs and trim torso, eagerly lined up on the track to start her mile, was perky young athleticism personified.
I, with my as-yet-undiagnosed asthma and inappropriate-for-the-weather attire, soon to be passing out from heat exhaustion to the delighted schadenfreude of the gathered sweaty tween masses, was not.
But at least I had breasts.
I apologize that, in hindsight, it appears to be much more about breasts than athleticism, but it’s what I’ve got. Hope you enjoy.