I still remember
the excruciating shame I experienced when my breasts began developing, and the embarrassment I felt at the prospect of asking my mother for my first bra.
I put it off for half a year—months in which I raced to the girls' locker room as fast as I could, on gym days, so I could secure a bathroom stall to change in.
I couldn't bear for the other girls to see my undershirt. A year later, at fourteen, when I got my period, I was once again struck dumb by the prospect of telling my mother, and so I pedaled my bike to the drugstore, filled my shopping basket with a bunch of unnecessary sundries, all to mask the real purpose of my mission: buying sanitary napkins. Taking out my money to pay, I cringed at the thought of the cashier, imagining me menstruating. I would always choose a woman for my cashier. That was bad enough.
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