Renovations

When I think of the word ‘renovation’ I remember an old Norman Rockwell painting of a young girl with pigtails sitting in front of a mirror with a propped up magazine picture of an impossibly elegant movie star, undoubtedly wishing that she too could transform herself into the elegant lady in the photo. 

That little girl could have been me. When I was in the third grade I was skipped up to the fifth grade, which made me the youngest kid in the class. I managed to keep up with the school work so when mom asked how I was doing, I said school was fine, and it was — until junior high. 

I found myself the sole eleven year old in the entire junior high school. Boys were a different species altogether which meant that I completely ignored them, but none of the other girls in my classes had time for me either. And it wasn’t that any of them were ever mean or rude to me, it was just that they were all so much more grown up. I was still wearing a tee shirt under my blouse while they wore bras. My buster brown hair cut, which was so great during the summer suddenly was out of place. The girls in my class had lots of puffy ‘teased’ hair. Most wore stockings while I wore socks and loafers. And some of them even wore lipstick. 

Life was horrible. If anyone needed a renovation, it was me. I was lonely during those two years and often spent my weekends at the library. Mom would listen to my tales of woe, of course, but all she could do was say to be patient; that I would grow soon too, just as my brothers had spurted up almost overnight. Then mom would commend that it was more important to be nice and polite than it was to be pretty. I knew that was a lie. I would hear the girls in the school bathroom talking about slumber parties and junior tea dances. When they saw me, they would look through me. I didn’t even exist to these girls unless it was to borrow my homework. 

And one horrendous weekend Mom thought it would help if she took me to an elegant department store and bought me a training bra. I was horrified. What was there to train. It was a new low. I was almost 12 and had just had my first period. I couldn’t imagine how life could get worse.

The next two dismal years came and went and while I had grown taller I was still as skinny as a rail. My brothers were now much taller than me, which was no consolation whatsoever. I did not want to be very tall and very skinny. Olive Oyl was not my role model. That was a whole other nightmare. I wanted to look like a coca-cola bottle. 

High school was coming up in the fall and I was not looking forward to it. Occasionally, though, I did notice that my blouses were tighter and my waist bands were loose. Finally, my mother suggested that her little girl was disappearing. It appeared that my personal renovation had begun.