I had no idea I was getting breasts. I mean, I knew they were there – big buds that stuck out no matter what shirt I was wearing – but I didn’t really care about them one way or the other. It wasn’t until an aunt and uncle bought me a training bra for my 12th Christmas that I knew I could feel shame about them. They gave me the package, jokingly, all “oh, ha-ha, go upstairs to open it” and while I sat in my room with hot, stinging tears on my face, I heard my uncle say something about how I should come down and model it. Shopping for my first bra was ridiculous – my mom took me to KMart and I just grabbed one, and then grabbed two more and that was it. I couldn’t tell you what size I was, ever, and after that first time I bought my own bras from money I made at an after-school job. My mother is not communicative about this sort of thing – “no heavy petting” was the extent of my sex ed. “I see you’re reading ‘Are You There, God, it’s Me, Margaret’ – do you understand everything in there?” was as far as we got about me getting my period.