February 01, 2014

Hopscotch and stuff

Do you remember hopscotch? What a great game that was. Hopping, jumping, leaping.

Stepping on lines and totally denying it while your competition could prove it by the scuff in the chalk line or the scattered dust in the line of dirt.

I really was pretty good at it, helped to have these long legs and a sense of competitiveness that had no end.

I also had the advantage of a lucky marker.  My dad worked for the telephone company.  He had given me a princess telephone key chain. Best marker ever!  The little blue princess phone gave  it just enough weight to fly where directed, not too much weight to bypass the 7 square, landing in the 10.  The chain added a little drag so once hitting the appropriate square it was not likely to bounce off into some other square or even out of the hopscotch lines altogether.

Some kids had rocks, bad idea because they bounced. My friend Layal once wound a rubber band around and around and around the pointy end of a feather. We thought it was a good idea but found out that rubber bounces, even when not shaped like a ball.  My father gave Layal a pink princess telephone key chain despite my head shaking behind Layal until I thought I was going to pass out or vomit. It evened up the tossing part of the game but luckily, I was about 4 inches taller than Layal so I could still jump five squares and land on one foot.

Layal was shorter than I was but she started to develop breasts long before I did. Those changes in her body really helped my hopscotch statistics. When a person runs, jumps the 1 square and has to launch to the seven square, landing on your left foot, it takes a lot of balance, concentration and a whole lot of arm waving not to buckle under the pressure and land on your tush or slide on your nose past the 10 square. Already height-challenged, Layal found it impossible to make those moves holding her hands firmly against her chest so none of the boys would see any jiggling that might disrupt the seriousness of the game. 

I thankfully remained flat-chested until my hopscotch years were over and my winning record remained untarnished. We had moved and no one in the new neighborhood had any interest in hopscotch. My reputation must have proceeded me.

It was still two years before I noticed my body even contemplating breasts and a year of contemplating before the first bump appeared. I didn't know if it was a mosquito bite or an actual boob. No itching so I checked the other side, yup, a matching bump. I must have been that last girl on the Boob-Fairy's route because she her supply of boob-stuff was severely lacking.

My new hobby was climbing trees to sit in them for hours and read.  Those little, tiny bumps on my chest were in no way an impediment to climbing trees and high up in the leafy branches, no one was bound to notice them. Hell, standing in front of me, a person would more likely scream, thinking a spider had crawled under my shirt than to inquire incredulously, "Is that a boob?"

The question was, how long could I stay up those trees and what happens if I have to pee or I finish my book and need another?  Could I stay up there until my breasts were done rising, like the bread dough on Grandma's counter?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comment Please but Play Nice!