It was a warm, Saturday morning in the summer of 1962. I sat at the kitchen table as a happy, flat-breasted twelve-year-old, eating pancakes with my family, and talking about the imminent arrival of my California cousins.  I was ecstatic.  Later in the day, we planned to gather for a mini family reunion, and a long anticipated picnic near the Payette riverfront in the Idaho Mountains.  My swimsuit, towel and tanning lotion were already packed in my bag – they had been for nearly a week.

All was about to change in a heartbeat.  Shortly before noon, our mailman delivered a large brown package from the Spiegel catalog store that would surely be the catalyst for thrusting me into womanhood.  Who could have possibly predicted that a sunhat and a heavily padded bra – my first – could alter my world in such a manner.  But it most certainly did. I quickly tore open the package, admired the life-changing contents, and then spent a good two hours modeling in front of the bathroom mirror. Without a doubt, I was quite pleased with my new figure.

As expected, my cousins arrived at our house in boisterous fashion, anxiously looking for me.  “Where’s Debbie?”  At the sound of their immature voices, I sauntered out of my bedroom sporting a 36B bust line – and a wide-brimmed sunhat.  Of course, they were stunned. Everyone was stunned.

The thirty-mile drive to our favorite picnic area was long, and without much conversation.  It didn’t matter.  I had no intention of giving up my rite of passage without a fight, and sat proudly in the backseat of our 1957 Pontiac between my two silent cousins.  Pam pouted the entire distance.  Jan kept staring at my chest.

Once we arrived, I offered to help the other ladies with table setting, and the womanly task of arranging food.  Of course, I would be sitting at the adult table, straight-backed and with a napkin on my lap.  The “kids” sat on folding lawn chairs, balancing paper plates on their knees.

“You look ridiculous,” snarled Pam, as she brushed past me on her way to get more potato chips.  “I suppose you’re planning on wearing that dumb hat all day?”

I didn’t have time for childish prattle.  I was a woman now.  Turning my attention to Aunt Betty, I asked, “Would it be possible to get your recipe for the potato salad?  It’s absolutely delicious.” My cousins moaned in disbelief and meandered off to gather pinecones.

As fate would have it, the afternoon temperatures were on a steady rise – and with it, my discomfort and boredom.  I watched from the adult picnic table as the girls cooled off along the river’s edge.  They were laughing, jumping from big rocks into the water, and having what appeared to be a wonderful time.  My new bra was scratchy.  I was sweating.  I didn’t know if I could bear another story starting with, “Did I ever tell you about…”

Suddenly, I excused myself from a conversation involving a crocheted doily to hurry off to the picnic site outhouse with my tote bag.  There I stripped down to my twelve-year-old, flat-breasted body once again, tossing the new bra and big sunhat in the bag.  Slipping into my ruffled-bottomed, polka-dot swimsuit and pink flip flops, I made an enthusiastic bolt for the river.  It had never felt so good to be a kid.