while i had the padded bra, a girl on my relay team would stuff her bralette with brown paper towels — the rough, hard-to-crinkle kind that you pull down out of a machine on the wall in public washrooms. she held the first position on the team, and i was the anchor, the final runner. she sometimes complained of chafing when we were practising, but she persevered. we made it to the city finals one year — a pretty cool feat for catholic girls from a small scarborough school — and when the gun went off for our last race, she was graceful and speedy, until she swerved to one side, letting the girl who was on her heels pull past.
no runner ever wished for big breasts
by the time i had the sweaty metal baton in my hand, we were well behind. i walked to the finish line with my teammates who explained that the paper towels had shifted during the run, catching the wind and flying away, causing enough of a distraction to slow her down. the coach was furious. “girls, when you are older, you will feel bad about the time you wasted making yourself something you aren’t,” she squished an empty can of diet cola with her hand. “and by the way, no runner ever wished for big breasts.”
today, i have a teenage girl of my own, who is smart and strong and beautifully opinionated. and while my older, wiser self wishes for her to be happy in her own skin, with those bright blue eyes, quick laugh and fearlessly curly hair, she often talks about the constant reminders from social media of beauty that’s perceived as straight hair, small waists, flat stomachs and clear skin. even teeth are up for debate and scrutiny.