So Hard to Love
Defense was my specialty
I had returned to Colorado from studying abroad in Italy for my sister’s wedding. I used a settlement from a car crash to pay for the five-week summer art history program. My dad said I was too fancy and thought I was more important than I was. I had just finished my freshman year of college. I felt independent, strong, worldly. At my sister’s wedding reception, I introduced my boyfriend to my relatives. Uncle Bob rarely left Kansas. He wore his standard denim overalls.
“This is my boyfriend Jason,” I said.
Uncle Bob ignored Jason’s outstretched hand. He looked me up and down, slowly. Intentionally. I wore a blue dress I had bought in Italy. Sleeveless. It was floor-length, but had a couple of small slits. Uncle Bob smiled and said, “My Paula, you filled out nicely.”
As a kid, I had been tall, until 5th grade. I stopped at 5 feet, 4 inches. Other kids kept growing. The girls in my class adored Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret? At their houses, we gathered in a circle and they chanted, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust.” I stayed silent; terrified my large breasts would keep growing. My friends stuffed their training bras during bathroom breaks, but I skipped over the training part and had a real bra. I crossed my arms over my chest. I slumped. Wore baggy shirts, but it was no use. The…
