One’s coming-of-age can
happen any time, most often when least expected. It doesn’t discriminate
depending on how well mannered or how feisty the youthful individual. Tain’t
no big, gnarly deal, right?
My loving, caring and always-patient mother made another
futile attempt to prepare me for the awkward, delicate topic all tweenage girls
should know: that time of the month. I was after all, 11 years old and my
knowing mother tip-toed around the topic the past year, where her gentle words
fell on deaf ears. Still, I was still a child at heart.
Disneyland, CA. 1971
My mother could no longer stand my cold shoulder
therefore, one afternoon she said she needed to talk to me and asked me to sit
down next to her in the living room. My adopted father and Ross, my 10-year-old
brother, weren’t home. Ross couldn’t interfere, interrupt or heckle me.
I noticed a 10” X 8” box on my mother’s lap. She
gingerly opened the box and to my horror I observed a wide assortment of feminine
pads known to woman-kind. There were pads for this day, ones for that day and
various sizes for those just-in-case days. My mother looked at me out of the
corner of her eye and discovered my arms rigid at my sides. Seeing the angst in
my eyes, she attempted to soften the ear-piercing silence by slowly sliding the
box onto my lap.
In one quick move, I flung the box into the air with
such force, pads went sailing throughout the living room. I ran out the front
door and raced to the barn where I pitched my humiliation onto a bale of hay. I
tried to understand why my mother would torment me with such a horrifically
embarrassing topic. There wasn’t one strand of personal hair growth, for which
I’d secretly searched, while holding my mother’s magnified, lighted make-up
mirror to each arm pit.
A year passed when the dreaded topic became the
hottest topic among my girlfriends. They’d begun getting their periods and were
deliriously excited to share the great news. They were growing up and still, I
wasn’t. I’d listen painfully to their in-depth details and I’d shrink into the
background. I had nothing to share and didn’t fit in.
When I was 13, my family moved and I began 8th
grade. I soon learned the hot topic was at my new school, too. I was taking the
required Sex Education class and the teacher threw me out more times than I can
count, however, that’s another story.
Still, I had nothing to offer and became unusually
quiet when the school girls asked, “So, did you get yours yet?” I’d wave my
hand and roll my eyes into the back of my head as if to say, “Duh. Yeah.” I
thought about my mother’s tender-hearted conversation a couple years prior and
then, wondered what was wrong with my rail-thin body. By now at this ultra-late
stage in life, I knew I’d never get my period. Not only was I frustrated, I was
downright afraid, too. It was as if I’d never witness the tiny sprout of life
from my Dixie Cup filled with fertile soil.
My tomboy, neighborhood girlfriends had older brothers
and therefore, learned to keep anything personal to themselves. I was relieved
nothing private was mentioned between us. I followed their lead, however, had
adjustments to make as I’d been an easily-read, open book since birth.
Disneyland, 1974
In my 9th grade freshman English class, I
was seated next to Stephanie and we became fast friends. The boys’ eyes bounced
back and forth from her beautiful face to her exceptionally well-endowed
breasts. Why was I built like an 11 year old?
I felt privileged, although admittedly uncomfortable,
in the company of a mature peer. Perhaps then, as if by magic I would become
more grown-up and the boys would notice me, too. I was still built like a waif
and therefore, concealed my budding raisinets, while learning heart-racing life
facts from Stephanie. During class, she’d relay hair-raising tales of her dates.
We were only 14 and Stephanie experienced more than Anna Nicole Smith.
One morning, Stephanie arrived late to class and I
could see by her expression something terrible happened. While the English
teacher babbled on about conjunction’s functions, I mouthed to Stephanie, “What’s
wrong?” She whispered her mother found her diary. I asked what she’d written
and she confided she’d been sneaking a senior boy into her bedroom window each
night. My innocent and naïve eyes flew wide open with astonishment. This was
more information than my virgin ears could handle.
Did Stephanie just
tell me she was having S-E-X? Did she and a boy really see each other naked? Who
in their right mind does that? I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes and
mouthed, “Wwwaaahhhttt?” She quietly repeated she’d been sneaking Michael into
her bedroom window after her parents went to sleep. I nervously and ignorantly asked,
“Are you and Michael having S-E-X?”
I looked straight ahead to regain my emotional
footing. I tried to grasp what I’d just learned. I hadn’t seriously thought of
a boy yet or God-forbid gone on a date. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16
and my 14-year-old English class bestie was already entwined in midnight rendezvous. Were they using protection? The class
bell rang and Stephanie grabbed my arm. She dragged me into the hallway where
she further confided her mother was going to take her to a psychiatrist to have
her head examined. Stephanie begged me to help her figure out what to do.
My mind raced and I felt my head would spin off my
shoulders. Stephanie’s face was in mine as she waited for my response. In a
panic I blurted out, “Tell your mother what she’d want to hear!” Stephanie’s
eyes widened with relief. She said she’d tell her mother she made up the
sex-capades because this was what she wished
would happen.
Stephanie continued sharing her evening dalliances
while my eager ears awaited the next juicy details of her adventures involving
the Birds and the Bees. I didn’t hear a word our English teacher spoke and frankly,
didn’t care. Honestly, would you?
My 9th grade school year was sailing by
like the wind and I was learning more in class than one may anticipate. One
blustery winter’s day, January 10th, 1975, against my wise mother’s wishes, I wore my white
bell-bottom pants to school. Why was she so uptight about what I wore?
I’d bundled up with a turtle neck sweater and a blouse
underneath. I told my mother not to be such a worry-wart and raced out the door
to the bus stop. During English, Stephanie and I were yakking away when all of
a sudden, I stopped speaking in mid-sentence.
My eyes grew huge and my stomach turned upside down as
I felt unusual warmth where I sat in my wooden desk. I knew I peed in my white,
bell bottom pants. I grabbed Stephanie’s arm and with horror whispered, “I just
peed myself!” She calmly shook her head and said, “No, you didn’t. You got your
period.” She asked whether I had anything in my backpack. I nervously replied,
“No!” I lied and told her I forget them. I didn’t want her to know this was my
first period. It was then visions of feminine pads sailing through the living
room air danced in my head.
Stephanie jolted me out of my visionary when she
firmly whispered, “Debbie! Take off your sweater and tie it around your waist.”
I did as she instructed and as soon as the bell rang, she walked behind me to
the girl’s bathroom where I raced into the last stall. She had only tampons, of
course. With my teeth clenched, I whispered through the stall door, “Just get
me one of those stupid pads out of the machine!” I angrily thought to myself, “Karma’s
a nasty mother.”
The glow of growing up and finally becoming a young
woman didn’t hold the charm it did for my girlfriends. Seemingly overnight, I’d
gone from a fresh-faced 14 year old girl to the pimply-faced backside of a
Nestlé’s Crunch bar. The following month, the dreaded Junior Lifesaving class
began.
Ms. Comer, the
Physical Education instructor with a manly voice, showed no mercy for wimps
like me. Besides my personal apprehensions, when the girls and I were in the
locker room, we feared Ms. Comer peeked at the girls while they changed or
showered. I changed into my one-piece swimsuit while holding a gym towel around
me with my teeth. I’d think of an excuse not to shower in front of anyone.
I was scared out of my mind to participate in the
required Junior Lifesaving class. Everyone would know I was only beginning to
develop. Too, I feared my period would come while I was in the swimming pool
and no, I wasn’t even close to the tampon-using stage. It was still the wintry
months and the cold temperature would draw unwanted attention to my teeny high
beams.
I tried to hide behind a cement pole when I heard Ms.
Comer’s gruff voice holler, “Debbie Patterson! Get in the pool right now!”
Frozen with terror, I slowly walked out and slid into the pool. Russell, my
brother’s kind and handsome friend, swam over to me, however, I couldn’t look
him in the eyes. He said he’d be my partner and I frantically shook my head
from left to right while staring into the gutter of the pool. He said we’d take
turns being the rescuer and being rescued to get a good grade in the class.
I silently begged for the sky to fall or for thunder
and lightening to begin. When my prayers were ignored, I slowly turned to
Russell and said, “Okay, but I think I’m going to die. I mean, seriously. I
think my heart’s going to stop beating.” I was too emotionally and mentally
underdeveloped having a boy near me. He
chuckled and said, “Then, I’ll get an A for rescuing you.”
Russell went flat on his back and I put my arm around
his neck as I couldn’t reach across his chest. I began dragging him across the
length of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. He was much taller than me and it
felt I was hauling a log. I was dog-paddling with one hand while doing the
scissor kick and still moving only inches. He knew I was struggling therefore,
he let his feet sink and began kicking his legs. I sailed across the pool with
my rescue.
When we reached the other end of the pool, Russell
and I talked for a moment under the high dive while I caught my breath. I knew
it was my turn to be rescued and I was dragging my feet. I told Russell there
was no way I could lie back while he had his arm draped across my chest and under
my arm pit. He said to lie back and close my eyes. I finally felt comfortable
enough to suffer through and we began the long journey back. All of a sudden,
there was a massive blast of water in my face and I bolted up.
Mark, who nick-named himself Spanky, from “Our Gang”,
had done a cannon ball off the high dive next to my head. He was in a fit of
hysterics while pointing at my terrified expression. Before I could call him
every name in the book, Russell quickly dragged me to the other end of the pool
while I kicked and screamed. Ms. Comer dutifully marked the paper on her
clipboard signaling, Russell and I completed the exercise.
Someone Up Above heeded one of my pleas during the
Junior Lifesaving class. Thankfully, my unpredictable period didn’t appear for
another couple months.
It’s been 43 years since the life-altering incidents
during my freshman year. I wonder what happened to Stephanie and whether she’s
still alive. Would she remember all the down and dirty details she experienced?
Russell recently ended his corporate career and is now happily retired as a
full-time rancher. Mark “Spanky” was killed in a head-on collision while riding
his motorcycle through the park late one night. He was a dare devil until his short-lived, bitter end.
Shasta Lake, CA. 1975
The youth-filled years have come and gone since I
felt naked in my swimsuit. Never again will I experience the growing pains,
which seemed insurmountable four decades ago. As a middle-aged woman, I know
one’s coming-of-age is a big, gnarly deal. Sadly, it only happens once upon a
lifetime.
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