1950 Memories of Suburban Adventures

Creating Cleavage

Nature blessed Kathy, Annie, and Barbara Kay with the start of a bosom that I was denied. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Barbara Kay, two months younger than me, possessed a private clubhouse in a large room on the side of her parent’s garage, and an impressive sunflower bed by its doorway.

Michael and Phillip, her two older brothers, had an even bigger play area across the back of the garage, with a pool table. These were not unfinished or rough rooms. Uncle Mike T’s office occupied the entire right-hand side. The front center was used as a garage.

Barbara Kay never took a bad photo.

Barbara Kay never took a bad photo.

Barbara Kay was pretty, with medium-long dark-brown hair and a perfect nose. She got early curves, I got zits.

Being my rich cousin, Barbie owned an endless closet of clothes. I became the lucky recipient of those she outgrew or tired of. I customized the waistband of her skirts to fit my skeletal frame by safety-pinning a folded pleat in the back.

I couldn’t inherit her slacks, my extra height made them too high-water. Try as I might, I couldn’t squeeze into her tiny Cinderella shoes.

Barbie and I loved playing dress-up, often with her neighbor Elaine. We hung sheets and curtains from the ceiling to subdivide her clubhouse into rooms. Nancy and Wilma, Barbie’s two older sisters, supplied us with a beautiful selection of prom dresses and other fancy clothes. We played house and office girls, but I don’t recall being princesses. Elaine, a year younger, played any male roles of father, brother, boss, or boyfriend.

I figured out the secret of achieving busty curves without stuffing a bra. First, I made a three inch fold in a towel or blanket, and rolled the fold down until the material reached the correct length for a strapless top, dress, or gown.

Then, I wrapped the garment around myself, placing the multi-folds where buxomness should be. If I wrapped the material real tight, and pulled my underarm skin toward the center, a tiny (real) cleavage appeared.

The final step of simulated bosomness could only be done by me. I sucked in my stomach until it almost touched my spine, making my ribcage protrude and enhance my new chest; instant womanhood.

In winter, we played dress-up inside the house. One cold day, we ventured into Aunt Nellie’s bedroom to gaze upon our beauty in her huge vanity mirror. The reflection stopped at our knees. We needed to see all the way down to our high-heeled feet. Barbie tipped the heavy mirror forward, and I saw myself from head to toe. I tipped it for Barbie.

“Help, I can’t hold it. It’s tipping forward,” I cried. “It’s going to crash.”

Aunt Nellie came into her room as we struggled to upright her mirror. She fixed the problem, but wasn’t happy. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She said, “Hmmm, Barbara Kay has never done anything like this before.”

I couldn’t deny it was I, possessor of fraudulent endowment, who tipped too far.

Lesson Learned: I should have become a clothing designer for chest-deprived girls.

Now it’s your turn: Did you creatively alter your shape as a kid?

© Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures, 2012 forward. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


5 Comments

  1. CJ says:

    No, I cannot remember doing that for some dumb reason…I am pretty sure all young girls do this though..and so must I have. However, I DO remember something hilarious that came to mind upon reading this post—I remember a Saturday afternoon when my sister and I were waiting in line to use the Confessional. As ‘luck’ would have it, it turned out that she was on one side and I was on the opposite, each in the dark booths with the priest in between. Unfortunately for her I could hear every word of what she told the priest. She told him the usual ‘bad’ stuff she’d done that week, including about cutting one of her little tee shirts up so that it looked like a bra (for which my mom’s wrath was unleashed, lol). I snickered in the dark booth trying SO HARD not to laugh out loud…omg that was so funny. I still couldn’t perish the thought and giggled all the way thru my own confession…and even up at the rail on bended knee trying to say penance prayers the thought got so tangled up in my brain that I ran from the church just to be able to laugh out loud. Thanks for the funny post to remind me of that time. I can’t wait till I see my sister tomorrow to remind her about that teeshirt incident.

    • skinnyuz2b says:

      Oh CJ, that is so sweet. A bra is in the eye of the beholder.

      When my youngest daughter was around nine I caught her in dress-up play clothes. Each end of the feather boa around her neck was curled up and stuffed where her chest would be. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.

  2. madammommy says:

    I can relate completely 🙂 !

    • skinnyuz2b says:

      That’s right, Madam, ‘A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.’ A couple of stray tissues did happen to land inside my training bra once. Without any pressure to hold them in place they kept sliding around. I got too worried my padding would be exposed, so I removed them.

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