The Art of Stuffing Bras
The time I got caught with toilet paper hanging out of my shirt….
I only stuffed my bra once.
I consider this an accomplishment since Troy Smith teased me every day in 7th grade about my lack of love buds.
“Kristi Walter’s a carpenter’s dream! She’s flat as a board! Heh!”
The truth is, I was wicked embarrassed by the notion of puberty, and I was fine with no boobs, no bra, and no other lady worries. No, thank you. I can totally wait. Super cool with being a late bloomer.
And I was, in spades.
At 11 years old in 1981, girls were divided into three groups: the bloomed, the bloomers, and the seedlings.
The bloomed had their own set of problems. Maturing early seemed almost freakish, like that one poor boy in third grade with facial hair and pimples.
I was amazed by my classmates who had enormous knockers and hips. I remember sitting at the Rec Park one summer, observing a catfight between two girls a grade or two above me. One had straight stringy blonde hair, a blue bikini with cutoff jean shorts, and a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She sneered at the other.
“Jeezass, are you fuckin’ looking at my tits, ya fuckint bitch?”
At that point, I totally noticed her boobs and not her cigarette and greasy hair. Then they started punching each other, and I hightailed it out of there.
The bloomers were the cool ones of the bunch. Not too much and not too little. And then…and then there were the little baby seedlings. It was still all about Barbie and records and rollerskating and Little House on the Prairie. Makeup wasn’t explored yet, boys — not even, and dragging a brush through my, I mean their, hair wasn’t much of a thought.
I felt insecure, and it wasn’t because other girls were blossoms to my seedling. I was embarrassed about my body going through changes, yes. But my insecurity stemmed from the ultimate tween paradox. I wanted to wear deep eyeliner and tight blue jeans. I wanted long, flowing Farrah hair, and have the boys flirt with me — just a little. But I wanted to do this while still holding on to my Barbies and records and rollerskating and Little House on the Prairie marathons.
I didn’t have the first idea how to do any of this, me with my little girl outfits, mousy, stringy hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. Oh, and non-existent love buds. Let’s not forget about those.
That was a tough year because I was happy being a seedling and wasn’t in a rush to grow up, but the bloomers grew increasingly mean. I felt like I couldn’t win.
I had a friend group the prior year, but over the summer, they all sprouted little lady lumps and were bedazzled with amazing blue eyeliner and attitudes to match. This seedling missed the maturity memo and got left behind.
I guess you could say I lost their support and became an excommunicated Heather.
The day they made fun of me for wearing a Holly Hobby smock scarred me for life. Of course, today, I’d laugh at them because their fashion sense is likely still stuck in that small-town Kmart (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Or I’d strike back with something ten times wittier and leave them sniveling in their little prissy puberty pants. Or I’d wear that smock with confidence like the true badass I soon became. Who needs the support of the bloomers when you’re a badass, right?
One afternoon, my friend Stephanie recommended a truly wacky and daring idea. Rebellious even. What if we were to… stuff our bras and go hang out at Flanders playground?
“Um,” I said, fingering my Funyons with precision. “What bra?”
She grabbed the roll of toilet paper and started ripping, “Just stuff it in your shirt.”
Um, ok. So, I stuffed my shirt. (And I was able to wipe my Funyons fingers off at the same time!) I was hesitant about heading over to the haunted playground to swing with my newly found toilet titties, but I went with it. What I did find appealing was the rush of rebellion it gave me. It felt so naughty and deliciously deceitful!
So what if my chest appeared deformed and bumpy?
We got to the empty playground and hit the teeter-totters for a big, bad round of “Farmer, Farmer.” We pushed the envelope even further to be cool and started using swear words. You know. Like the A-word and the S-word and the F-word.
“Farmer, Farmer, let me down!” Steph giggled.
“What will you give me?”
“Fucking John Schneider!?”
“Shitchyeah!” I squeal, so grown up. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck!”
Suddenly, I felt so alive and just like a juvenile hitting the road to join The Runaways, emphasizing “fuck” with a sweet, naughty, staccato melody.
Until the Bloomers arrived. The same ones who had just that week ruined the chances of my ever putting another Holly Hobby item on my body again (thank God).
Bloomer #1 had a cigarette.
A cigarette.
Bloomer #2 just sneered at me for a few moments, which felt like hours passing.
The clock ticking in silence.
Baby-blue-lined eyes narrowed at me with a joyful smirk as she told the rest of the bloomers in slow motion, “She stuffed herself! Oh my God! She has fucking toilet paper hanging out of her top!”
The clock stops. Echoes of laughter. I die of embarrassment. Unfortunately, my death is not fatal.
As all denounced Heathers do, I had my day. Both bloomers from the playground now stand approximately 12 inches shorter than I do in all their Oompa Loompa wonder.
I grew up soon enough. The next year brought on the Jordache jeans and the eyeliner, and the roach clip feather in the hair, and lots of makeup, mom’s perfume, and jewelry. Of course, the bloomers forever deemed me as weird, and if I walked by them today, I would probably still feel like they were snickering at me like I’m wearing a Holly Hobby smock with toilet paper hanging out.
I never stuffed my bra again after that.
However, I was asked to stuff the old tangerine holders for a play during my freshman year of high school. I was supposed to be a showgirl and the director — just as the Junior High boys loved to do — felt it necessary to pull out the carpenter’s dream card, justifying it with, “You’re supposed to be a showgirl. Get in the goddamn bathroom now and stuff it with whatever you have to stuff it.”
Stuff it?
Stuff it?
I was a little older now and was sporting a bit of diva confidence, so I had a princess fit — all dramatic and whatnot in the girls’ bathroom, furious that this asshole high school teacher would have the nerve to ask me to “stuff it.” I was happy and confident with whatever I had to work with, and I was not about to go out on stage with toilet paper hanging out of my costume.
If you want a big-boobed showgirl, you put on the costume and stuff it!
Sometimes curiosity gets the best of us.
We want what others seem to have. We want to fit in. Even now, well past the days of my youth, I still won’t compromise and figuratively stuff my bra to make someone else happy or fit society’s ideal of what I should be.
However… I have learned with age and experience (and a couple of kids) that there is certainly nothing wrong with a little padding here and there.
Padding can lift us up where we need it most. It provides support. And when it comes to our lives, our loved ones, and who we are to our very core — having support is something one should never find shame or embarrassment in.
Great story! Now I know why there was never enough toilet roll in the bathrooms at school....or maybe there was another reason...(boys!)
You made me laugh. Mine didn't come early, but when they came, they were huge. 😅