Clever Magazine, Vol. llI, Issue # 9 "The Natural Woman " (www.clevermag.com)

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A Natural Woman
by Victoria Reggio

It started with our birthdays. My cousin Angela was born on the 18th of July, the same as Paul McCartney. My birthday was the 6th of July, the day before Ringo! Our families lived in the same building – her parents were our landlords. And to top it off, we attended the same grammar school. Comparisons and rivalries were inevitable.

Angela ran faster, jumped double-dutch better and as we reached puberty, had a big round butt that the boys loved. I had a clearer complexion but it was on a head that sat on a stick figure. To the boys, there was always Clearasil.

One day as a seventh grader, I was in the school yard with my best friend Joanie, when she began to complain of having cramps. I was stunned.

“You got your period? When?”

“Oh, months ago,” she said matter-of-factly.

Just then, another one of our friends, Carolyn chimed in. “I did too.” As the two of them chatted away about their stomach pains and sanitary napkins, I stood there feeling completely left out. It was then that I realized Angela could beat me at this as well. And true to form, she did.

It was a Saturday in February. She rang the bell and from the foot of the stairs looked up at me and announced, “I’m a woman!”

I was distraught. I quizzed my mother and older sister constantly. “When will I get it? What does it feel like before you get it?” Finally, my mom handed me a pink booklet she sent for with a coupon from Kotex. From the way it was written, you would have thought Glenda the Good Witch was going to tap me with a wand while I slept.

Well it would be six months before I was “tapped” shortly before my thirteenth birthday. I was relieved to finally be in step with Angela; until the next hurdle.

While I basked in the glow of my new womanhood, Angela went shopping… for a bra! She gleefully lifted her t-shirt to reveal her new Young Miss size 30A.

This I could control. My mother soon learned that I had not outgrown my whining and tantrum stage. “But you’re flat-chested!”

I laid it on the line. “I’m getting a bra because Angela has one.”

She gave in and we went to one of those stores on a main street that doesn’t even exist anymore. It was a place only women entered; filled with girdles, narrow boxes that held nylon stockings, garter belts, full slips and of course, brassieres.

The sales woman who looked like she wore all of the above, took one look at me and said, “Oh, she needs a trainer – size 28A.”

“Oh no! I want a 30A.”

My mother did not appreciate my contradicting a professional but she didn’t want a hysterical adolescent on her hands either.

“Vicki, try on both sizes.”

The 28A fit like a glove (or like a bandaid). My mother peeked in and smiled approvingly.

I tried on the 30A. Since I didn’t fill it out, and it was all bunchy, she assumed I would go for the other.

I came out of the dressing room clutching the box with the bigger size and said, “I’m taking this one.”

“Vicki, are you crazy. It doesn’t fit.”

I wasn’t letting go of that box.

“Fine, look stupid.”

I came home and put on my sweater over my new purchase. I solved the bunching with some toilet tissue that proved to be unnecessary after a few months.

My instincts had proven me right. I didn’t need a trainer. While racing towards womanhood, I had no one with whom to compete but myself and I was a natural.