âThanks again,â she gets in, slams shut the door, and they go shooting off up Sixth Avenue.
Huh.
I turn south to walk the few blocks to Washington Square and the subway, yanking my cell from my purse. I call home, tell Leo Iâll be there in about forty-five minutes, then punch in Tinaâs number. Of course, I get her machine, since she works until six, at a lumber supplier in Long Island City. I toss the phone back into my purse and find my mind wandering, back to that dress. The one with the dropped waist, in the showroom. How to change it to make it work for, I donât know, somebody like me.
With the exception of my sister, the women in my family,on both sides, tend to be short and bosomy. My hunch is that Starr will follow in this genetic tradition, even though sheâs got spaghetti strand appendages now. So did I at her age. Imagine my shock when I awoke one morning to find these bizarre protuberances jutting out from my chest.
At twelve, I was already a D-cup. They should make it a rule, when you get breasts that early, that you have to put them away for later. Like the pearl necklace my great-grandmother gave me for my sixth birthday that I wasnât allowed to wear until I was deemed mature enough to handle the responsibility.
Iâm okay with them now, though. My breasts, I mean. The necklace, sad to say, vanished in the back seat crevice of Donny Volcekâs fatherâs Taurus on prom night. The good news, though, is that a Taurusâs interior is definitely roomier than it appears from the outside.
As I was saying. I came to terms with my short, bosomy self some time ago. Thatâs not to say I donât have body issues from time to time. Like whenever I go bra shopping. Or try to find a pair of jeans that even remotely go where my curves do. You know what Iâm talking about, right?
Men donât have these problems. All a guy has to do is yank on a T-shirt or a sweatshirt or something and heâs done. No wires to pinch, no straps to slip, no overflow ooching over the sides or between the zipper that refuses to close unless you lie flat on your back and give up breathing. Okay, so men have the tie thing to deal with, but please. How many men wear ties these days? At least on a full-time basis. When youâre a D-cup, you damn sight wear a bra every single day or by the time youâre sixty you have to kick your ta-tas out of your way when you walk. This is not something a man has to face.
Not too often, anyway.
I fall in with the herd resolutely filing down the stairs to the subway entrance, wishing I had something to anesthetize me for the long subway ride.
Wishing that adorable little apartment were mine.
What is it with me tonight? First my reaction to Gingerâs wedding ring, now the apartment. I am notânormallyâa covetous person, wanting things that belong to someone else. Especially things I couldnât afford in my wildest dreams.
I swipe my Metrocard and meld into the pack on the platform, while way, way back in my brain, something blips, very faintly, very quickly. Hardly enough to register, really. But it was there, I canât deny it, like not being able to deny that, yes, that was a rat skittering across your path:
Resentment. That if I hadnât had Starr, maybe things would be different.
As I said, the feeling is fleeting, like the shudder from seeing that rat. But that it surfaces at all gnaws at me. Just like that rat.
And now that Iâve beaten that metaphor to deathâ¦
A gush of heavy, stale air and an increasingly loud series of mechanical groans and whines heralds the trainâs arrival. Doors open, bodies get off, bodies get on, doors close. I find a seat, amazingly enough, settling in and forcing myself to think about all the things I have to be grateful for. One of my motherâs tricks, whenever either one of us was tempted to feel sorry for ourselves.
We used it a lot, there at the end.
But there
Huh.
I turn south to walk the few blocks to Washington Square and the subway, yanking my cell from my purse. I call home, tell Leo Iâll be there in about forty-five minutes, then punch in Tinaâs number. Of course, I get her machine, since she works until six, at a lumber supplier in Long Island City. I toss the phone back into my purse and find my mind wandering, back to that dress. The one with the dropped waist, in the showroom. How to change it to make it work for, I donât know, somebody like me.
With the exception of my sister, the women in my family,on both sides, tend to be short and bosomy. My hunch is that Starr will follow in this genetic tradition, even though sheâs got spaghetti strand appendages now. So did I at her age. Imagine my shock when I awoke one morning to find these bizarre protuberances jutting out from my chest.
At twelve, I was already a D-cup. They should make it a rule, when you get breasts that early, that you have to put them away for later. Like the pearl necklace my great-grandmother gave me for my sixth birthday that I wasnât allowed to wear until I was deemed mature enough to handle the responsibility.
Iâm okay with them now, though. My breasts, I mean. The necklace, sad to say, vanished in the back seat crevice of Donny Volcekâs fatherâs Taurus on prom night. The good news, though, is that a Taurusâs interior is definitely roomier than it appears from the outside.
As I was saying. I came to terms with my short, bosomy self some time ago. Thatâs not to say I donât have body issues from time to time. Like whenever I go bra shopping. Or try to find a pair of jeans that even remotely go where my curves do. You know what Iâm talking about, right?
Men donât have these problems. All a guy has to do is yank on a T-shirt or a sweatshirt or something and heâs done. No wires to pinch, no straps to slip, no overflow ooching over the sides or between the zipper that refuses to close unless you lie flat on your back and give up breathing. Okay, so men have the tie thing to deal with, but please. How many men wear ties these days? At least on a full-time basis. When youâre a D-cup, you damn sight wear a bra every single day or by the time youâre sixty you have to kick your ta-tas out of your way when you walk. This is not something a man has to face.
Not too often, anyway.
I fall in with the herd resolutely filing down the stairs to the subway entrance, wishing I had something to anesthetize me for the long subway ride.
Wishing that adorable little apartment were mine.
What is it with me tonight? First my reaction to Gingerâs wedding ring, now the apartment. I am notânormallyâa covetous person, wanting things that belong to someone else. Especially things I couldnât afford in my wildest dreams.
I swipe my Metrocard and meld into the pack on the platform, while way, way back in my brain, something blips, very faintly, very quickly. Hardly enough to register, really. But it was there, I canât deny it, like not being able to deny that, yes, that was a rat skittering across your path:
Resentment. That if I hadnât had Starr, maybe things would be different.
As I said, the feeling is fleeting, like the shudder from seeing that rat. But that it surfaces at all gnaws at me. Just like that rat.
And now that Iâve beaten that metaphor to deathâ¦
A gush of heavy, stale air and an increasingly loud series of mechanical groans and whines heralds the trainâs arrival. Doors open, bodies get off, bodies get on, doors close. I find a seat, amazingly enough, settling in and forcing myself to think about all the things I have to be grateful for. One of my motherâs tricks, whenever either one of us was tempted to feel sorry for ourselves.
We used it a lot, there at the end.
But there
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