Spring: Bloatus Blossom
The author, age 16 ______________________ |
“Jeffer the Heifer.”
– An early childhood
nickname bestowed upon me by a mean boy, who happened to be my cousin.
On some level, being
dubbed as a heifer made a strange sort of sense, for I had endured a years-long
adversarial relationship with this junior lunkhead.
I expected to be bullied by him; the adults in the room thought the
boy was kind of cute and clever, insisting that I was just a thin-skinned whiner
who wouldn’t stand up for herself.
I was never going to
have the support of my family, so for most of my childhood I just sucked it up
and avoided this person whenever possible.
Never mind that the term
“heifer” was wildly imprecise because I wasn’t terribly overweight, perhaps a bit
chunky.
Big deal.
But even if I had been morbidly
obese, it would have been cruel to allow this boy to bully me.
I now understand that
the adults around me were wrong to allow and even encourage this boy to make my
life miserable, that harassing language is
a kind of sticks and stones.
By the time I reached
high school, the name calling and harassment abated significantly. For one
thing, as we began moving in different circles, I saw him less and less, and to
give the little imp his due, he did apologize later in life.
By then, the
psychological damage had been done.
Fast forward to high
school.
In freshman year, I
started making friends from other parishes.
My new best friend (BF)
was acquired via homeroom proximity: she sat in the seat in front of me.
We had a lot in common,
such as a fanatic adoration of the Beatles: she loved Paul McCartney, and I was
certain I would marry George Harrison someday (Alert: I was wrong).
I was being raised as an
only child; BF came from a family of a gazillion kids – she once showed me the
family larder, which was filled with an impressive number of restaurant-sized
cans of soup, fruit, spaghetti and meatballs, and vegetables. Once, when I ate
over at her house, she warned me, “You better grab what you want the first time
around because it won’t come around again.”
She was taller and
slightly thinner than me, about a size 10 or 12.
I weighed between 140
and 150, perhaps a bit bustier than my peers, and I wore a solid size-14 school
uniform. I was curvier than Best Friend, my face rounder – in other words, I
carried vestiges of “baby fat.”
In 2017, I would be
considered a curvaceous “normal weight.”
For two years, we were
tight and did everything together. When our school went to state finals in
basketball, she invited me to join her family in their old school bus,
retrofitted by her dad, for a fun road trip to Des Moines, four hours away (Our
team lost, coming in second or third, but we still had loads of fun, a memory I
still cherish). We went to rock concerts – the Caravan of Stars that rolled
into town, dropping in on Sioux City on its way to Somewhere Else, most likely Omaha
or Chicago. We enjoyed numerous slumber parties and individual sleepovers, just
fun girl stuff.
Toward the end of
sophomore year, something between us began to shift; BF grew devastatingly
gorgeous, slimming down and acquiring a golden tan. She also highlighted her long
hair and started wearing makeup.
She resembled the
actress Julie Christie – she was beautiful and knew it and even said “I’m
pretty!” out loud.
I, on the other hand,
was still just me, neither pretty or ugly – just an ordinary Iowa Girl who
carried a little extra flesh.
The mid-sixties had heralded
in the Twiggy era, when the straight up-and-down stick figure without boobs or
butt was the preferred body type – the sweater girl was so 1940’s and 1950’s.
I was a girl out of step
with my times: I had big boobs and a rounded butt, and I was an awkward girl
who did not carry herself very well.
BF also began running
with some in-crowd kids, so we spent less time together – typical teenage growing-apart
angst.
It was during this time
when she started referring to me as “Bloatus Blossom.”
She thought this name
was terribly funny and tried to blow it off as a cute pet name.
I wasn’t buying it.
While I understood why
my cousin called me names, I couldn’t understand why my best friend would start
bullying me in that manner.
Weren’t we supposed to
love and respect one another, not tear each other down?
I was heartbroken.
I didn’t have the
psychological wherewithal to confront her, to let her know how much her jokey moniker
hurt, so I pretended to laugh, while inside I was weeping.
Another kind of girl
might have been able to shuck it off and view “Bloatus Blossom” as a joke or
even an affectionate pet name, but for me it represented what I thought I really
was: an ugly bloated blossom who would never
bloom properly.
The beginning of the end
occurred at one of BF’s last slumber parties. It was an awkward event, my
school friends surpassing me socially, psychologically, intellectually, and
physically.
I was still crazy about
the Beatles; my friends had moved on to real boyfriends, jobs, and looking
forward to college or marriage. My grades were mediocre, and college for me
would not become a reality until 12 years later, after my first marriage
started going south and my son was seven.
I knew, and they knew,
that I was out of sync with them; frankly, I had been invited out of pity, perhaps
out of past history.
I was out of sorts; I
feigned sleep so that I wouldn’t have to engage with these strangers.
I would have been better
off had I just packed up and gone home.
They talked about my
weight, my backwardness, my looks, my lack of brains, my out-of-date clothes,
my unruly frizzy hair, my utter lack of maturity, my general pathetic state.
Even now, I wonder why
they kept me around.
I continued feigning
sleep, although I wanted to rise up and kill all of them – inside, I was dying
and lamenting my very existence.
What right did such a
loser have to exist?
What might have happened
if social media had existed back then?
Thank goodness it
didn’t; I might have been one of those highly publicized Facebook suicides. As
it was, later that morning, I simply went home and cried my guts out.
No need to engage with
these so-called friends, if I didn’t want to.
My friendship with BF fizzled
out; there were no confrontations, no “I hate you’s,” nothing to signal the end
of a friendship. In some ways, that was worse than a knockdown slugfest.
At least with a
confrontation, there is a defined end, a definite cut-off point, a point of no
return.
None of that.
Over the years, I had
sporadic contact with BF. In the mid-1980’s we started up a short
correspondence. She mostly wrote about her first baby and her real estate
business. I wrote about my second marriage and my husband’s upcoming Fulbright
in Yugoslavia.
Then her letters stopped.
Until 2012, when we reconnected
on Facebook.
For a time, we posted
back and forth, sharing the *good* memories, never the bad.
Then in 2013, for no
apparent reason, she unfriended me.
I should have known
better: kick me in the gut once, shame on you, kick me twice, shame on me.
Should she become
curious once again and tries to re-friend me, I’ll simply hit the delete button
– I’m too old for unresolved teenage drama.
Bloatus Blossom, indeed.
Certainly a fitting
death of a friendship that had been on life support for the past 50 years.
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