Good morning, Friend,
If you could go back in time, what would you tell your 13-year-old self? Is there any age on God’s green earth worse than 13?! My answer: NO! Let me tell you about an experience I had at that awkward age that I’ve thought about recently.
It was 1973. Just the thought of “1973” makes me smile—now. People were flocking to the movie theaters to see “The Exorcist” and “The Sting.” They were singing along to “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree” and “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” On the tube, people were watching “All in the Family” and “The Waltons.” I was pouring over the JCPenney catalog, earmarking the pages with bellbottoms and ponchos, and hoping to save my babysitting money to buy a new “choker.” But, by far, the biggest, most spectacular thing I did that year . . .
. . . I became a Junior Guardette. (I’ll wait a sec while you applaud.)
Just what is a Jr Guardette? you wonder. Thanks for asking. So, our high school teams were the “Castle Guards.” Apparently, the old high school, attended by the ancients of our small town that had since burned down, looked like a castle, so the teams became the Castle Guards. A new high school was built and was attached to the elementary school by a shared gymnasium. The high school had a pompom girl squad called the “Guardettes.” And thus, the pompom girls of 7th & 8th grades were the Junior Guardettes. Fascinating reading, I know. Let’s get to the good stuff.
This pompom girl business was a relatively new concept in my hometown. Sure, we had cheerleaders. Everybody had cheerleaders. But we didn’t have pompoms until a new teacher moved to town. A young, hip, gorgeous woman wearing miniskirts and knee-high boots became our 5th-grade teacher. She came to our little hovel from Minneapolis, and man, was she something! She was the one who started the Guardettes in high school and then, shortly after that, the Jr Guardettes (JG).
Praise the Lord, there were no tryouts! If you were a girl and wanted to be in the group, you were in! I’d never have been brave enough to audition. At our first meeting after school, Miss H (name deleted to protect the fabulous) called us into her classroom. She told us what sewing patterns to purchase to make the skirt and vest we needed for our uniforms. They were to be red corduroy that we’d wear over white turtlenecks. Red knee-highs and white Keds completed our look. (I distinctly remember her telling us the patterns were “Misseses” sizes. She didn’t say “Misses” but “Misseses.”) My mom was not a seamstress, so she asked my best friend’s mom, who sews beautifully, if she’d make my uniform for me. Sure! No problem! My friend would also be a JG, so she’d make two. Since these were patterns made for grown women, I had to overcome one—er—two tremendous obstacles.
Darts.
I don’t mean the game you play in bars. I mean the seams built into ladies’ tops to accommodate their bosoms. Uh-oh, here comes the problem. . . .I had no bosoms. I mean, nothing was growing in that department. If it were possible to be concave rather than convex, that is what I was. My friend’s mom must have made my uniform just like she’d make my friend’s, who was actually curvy already. And when I put on my vest, complete with darts, it caved in on me like a tent with no stakes holding it up.
I was mortified.
“Wear your uniforms to school when the boys have a basketball game!” Miss H told us enthusiastically, smiling at us with her perfect teeth and Maybelline model face. Oh, for the love of Pete, now the whole school would see me wearing that vest with nothing to keep it “inflated.” I don’t know if it ever occurred to me to “enhance” my figure by artificial means (aka Kleenex), but I never did. I just “Flat Stanley”-ed it.
If it weren’t for those darts, I would have loved being a JG. I loved dancing. I loved the music. I loved that we had pompoms (that we made ourselves!). I loved the steps we learned. I loved being with my friends. I loved hanging out in Miss H’s room since she was the closest thing to Mary Tyler Moore I’d ever seen. But those stupid darts spoiled it all. They were like two giant arrows pointing straight at my chest, illuminating to the world that I was not good enough. It feels ridiculous as I type it now, but back then, it was humiliating.
I wish I could go back and tell 13-year-old Patti that this was not the end of the world. What would I say?
“Patti, so you are a skinny girl and haven’t ‘blossomed’ yet? RELAX! Trust me when I say that the girls who have developed already aren’t happy either. Even the girls you think are popular, cute, and have no problems find things to dislike about themselves in the mirror. You. Are. Not. The. Only. One. Some girls may smile and pretend that they aren’t feeling that “different-ness” inside, but guess what— they’re feeling it. And you’re worried that no boys are ever going to like you? Count your blessings! Seriously, is there anything more obnoxious than a 13-year-old boy anyway? Give it time, girl. Have fun with your friends. Dance the dances. Wave your pompoms. Sing at the top of your lungs from the backseat of the car to the Bay City Rollers on the radio. You won’t always feel this awkward. Life doesn’t stay like this. You are more than how your clothes fit you. You are becoming the person God intended you to be, little by little, every day. Don’t rush it, and don’t try to slow it down. You—are—so—loved.”
It occurs to me that much of this advice I could tell myself today.
What advice might you pass on to a younger you?
Be wary of the “darts” out there, my friend. Whether someone is throwing them at you or you are throwing them at yourself. Remember—you are so loved.
I’m headed to California next week to see my daughter and her family. I’ll write again on February 6.
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO
Funny, I don’t even see those poisonous darts now.
“Thank You for making me so wonderfully complex!
Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.”
Psalm 139:14