Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Girl I Learned from Judy Blume Read Online Free
Author: Jennifer OConnell
the boom box and contraband Jack Daniels snuck inside the jean jackets worn by Robbie and his eighth-grade friends.
I can still describe in detail how Robbieâs friend Doug Keener nonchalantly asked me if I wanted to go out to the garage with Robbie and the birthday girl. I can tell you how I followed him out the family room door into the dark two-car garage and how we climbed into the backseat of Mr. McCallâs Buick sedan (Christine and Robbie got the front seat, although in hindsight it does seem like a less desirable choice). And I can, though I wonât, explain exactly what I was thinking when I let Doug Keener, a boy who hadnât said two words to me up until that invitation to join him in the Buick, slip his hand up my sweater and get to second base.
No, it wasnât my birthday. It wasnât my first kiss. It wasnât even that Iâd finally gotten the attention of a popular guy who Iâd had a crush on (while Doug was indeed one of the more popular guys, he was way too short to be on my five-foot-six radar). So why, to this day, can I remember exactly what I was wearing (turquoise blue knit sweater constructed of synthetic material that left red scratchy imprints on my skin and made me swear off sweaters for good); how can I remember the color of the backseatâs upholstery (navy blue velour with light blue pinpoint design on the cushions); and why havenât I forgotten that the following Monday, when I passed Doug in the hall, he acted like heâd never seen me before in his life?
Very simply, it was a Judy Blume moment.
Fifteen minutes after entering the garage, I walked back into Christineâs family room, arranging my sweater so that nobody was the wiser, and watched Doug rejoin his friends by the table of Doritos and Sprite as if nothing had happenedâas if a few misguided attempts to undo the clasp to my bra were less noteworthy than the empty basket of Pringles he seemed to be lamenting. And as I watched Doug lick the orange Dorito dust from his fingersâthe very fingers that had been groping my white cotton bra not ten minutes agoâit hit me. The friendâs birthday party; the cute guyâs invitation to make out in a dark place; the knowledge that said cute guy would try get to second base; and the fear of what would happen if I said no. There was another girl I knew of whoâd gone through the exact same thing, and her name was Deenie.
I thought about how Deenie had debated whether to wear her back brace to her friendâs party, how she was sure the cute guy was going to want to feel her up and she didnât want to disappoint him. Only Deenie had her brace to protect her, and I just had an irritating sweater that, quite frankly, made the idea of a soft hand against my skin seem way more enjoyable than poorly knit nylon. Even though Deenie and I made different choices when faced with a five-fingered assault on our training bras, we both had something very much in common. And that something is what Iâve come to call a Judy Blume moment.
Sally sat on the Murphy bed and watched as Mom put some more rouge on her cheeks, went over her lips a second time and dabbed a drop of perfume behind each ear. âYou smell good,â Sally said. âLike Lillies of the Valley.â
âItâs called White Shoulders,â Mom said. âItâs my favoriteâ¦here, Iâll put some behind your ears too.â
âUmmmâ¦I like that,â Sally said, wondering if Latin lovers would be attracted to it. Maybe sheâd try it out on Peter Horton.
âStarring Sally J. Freedman As Herself
My parents went out on Saturday nights. I know now that they couldnât possibly have gone out every single Saturday night, every single week of the year, but thatâs the way I remember it. And I didnât mind. We had nice babysitters who let us stay up past our bedtime, watch the Love Boat, and build forts with the sofa cushions.
I can still describe in detail how Robbieâs friend Doug Keener nonchalantly asked me if I wanted to go out to the garage with Robbie and the birthday girl. I can tell you how I followed him out the family room door into the dark two-car garage and how we climbed into the backseat of Mr. McCallâs Buick sedan (Christine and Robbie got the front seat, although in hindsight it does seem like a less desirable choice). And I can, though I wonât, explain exactly what I was thinking when I let Doug Keener, a boy who hadnât said two words to me up until that invitation to join him in the Buick, slip his hand up my sweater and get to second base.
No, it wasnât my birthday. It wasnât my first kiss. It wasnât even that Iâd finally gotten the attention of a popular guy who Iâd had a crush on (while Doug was indeed one of the more popular guys, he was way too short to be on my five-foot-six radar). So why, to this day, can I remember exactly what I was wearing (turquoise blue knit sweater constructed of synthetic material that left red scratchy imprints on my skin and made me swear off sweaters for good); how can I remember the color of the backseatâs upholstery (navy blue velour with light blue pinpoint design on the cushions); and why havenât I forgotten that the following Monday, when I passed Doug in the hall, he acted like heâd never seen me before in his life?
Very simply, it was a Judy Blume moment.
Fifteen minutes after entering the garage, I walked back into Christineâs family room, arranging my sweater so that nobody was the wiser, and watched Doug rejoin his friends by the table of Doritos and Sprite as if nothing had happenedâas if a few misguided attempts to undo the clasp to my bra were less noteworthy than the empty basket of Pringles he seemed to be lamenting. And as I watched Doug lick the orange Dorito dust from his fingersâthe very fingers that had been groping my white cotton bra not ten minutes agoâit hit me. The friendâs birthday party; the cute guyâs invitation to make out in a dark place; the knowledge that said cute guy would try get to second base; and the fear of what would happen if I said no. There was another girl I knew of whoâd gone through the exact same thing, and her name was Deenie.
I thought about how Deenie had debated whether to wear her back brace to her friendâs party, how she was sure the cute guy was going to want to feel her up and she didnât want to disappoint him. Only Deenie had her brace to protect her, and I just had an irritating sweater that, quite frankly, made the idea of a soft hand against my skin seem way more enjoyable than poorly knit nylon. Even though Deenie and I made different choices when faced with a five-fingered assault on our training bras, we both had something very much in common. And that something is what Iâve come to call a Judy Blume moment.
Sally sat on the Murphy bed and watched as Mom put some more rouge on her cheeks, went over her lips a second time and dabbed a drop of perfume behind each ear. âYou smell good,â Sally said. âLike Lillies of the Valley.â
âItâs called White Shoulders,â Mom said. âItâs my favoriteâ¦here, Iâll put some behind your ears too.â
âUmmmâ¦I like that,â Sally said, wondering if Latin lovers would be attracted to it. Maybe sheâd try it out on Peter Horton.
âStarring Sally J. Freedman As Herself
My parents went out on Saturday nights. I know now that they couldnât possibly have gone out every single Saturday night, every single week of the year, but thatâs the way I remember it. And I didnât mind. We had nice babysitters who let us stay up past our bedtime, watch the Love Boat, and build forts with the sofa cushions.
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