I was obsessed with Judy Blume as a young adolescent. I enthusiastically read every book she ever wrote; but, I identified most with Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. It’s the story of a sixth grade girl fumbling her way through puberty and attempting to define her own faith. (I know that Lionsgate recently adapted it into a film but unfortunately Starz is one of the few streaming services I don’t have; so, I have yet to see it.)

All these decades later I remember few details about the story save one: the exercise that Margaret’s friend Nancy prescribed in order to make all of their boobs bigger. She instructed her three closest friends to ball their hands into fists, bend their elbows, stick their chests out, and basically perform pectoral flies while chanting “We must — we must — we must increase our bust!” (Blume). Nancy promised the girls that if they performed this ritual thirty-five times each day they were guaranteed to find themselves with bigger ta-tas.

In the seventh grade when I read this novel, and having been deemed a member of the “itty bitty titty committee,” I was intrigued by this idea — as were some of my closest girlfriends. My best friend, Marissa, had read that if you spread peanut butter on your chest at night it would also help enhance your bustline.

Thus, every evening for the better part of a year I snuck into the pantry and scooped out a bit of Peter Pan with a tablespoon. Then, I quickly retreated to my room and spread it across my tomboy chest before trussing it in Saran Wrap and performing the exercise from Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. exactly thirty-five times.

Every couple of weeks when my mom performed her inventory for the grocery shopping she’d shake her head and say, “I don’t know where the hell all of the Saran Wrap is going. And how are you guys going through this much peanut butter?” I could feel my face heat up like a suntanning lamp from embarrassment; but, I never let on.

As we entered the eighth grade the following year, Katie and Marissa both had larger boobs that required they wear “real” bras (which they attributed to the peanut butter and exercise regime) while I remained as flat as an ironing board.

Discouraged and angry after being teased our first day of gym class, I went home bitter and confused. Why had the ritual worked for my friends and not for me?

Sheltered in the safety of my bedroom later that evening, I was tearing up my copy of Judy Blume’s novel in disgusted tears when my mom quietly entered the room.

“What’s goin’ on, Kiddo?” she asked.

I was too tired and too ashamed to keep my secret from her any longer. With a heavy heart, I confessed to my Peter Pan and Saran Wrap theft through snot-filled sobs. I told my mom how my body had rejected our brilliant plan, while Katie and Marissa’s had thrived.

My mother — to my shock and chagrin — laughed and said, “Oh, sweetheart. Their bodies didn’t change because of some silly shenanigans you read about in a fiction novel. It’s all about hormones at your age, and you’re going to change when your body’s ready. I’m sorry to say there’s no magical way to obtain bigger boobs.”

“But,” I asked, “why aren’t mine more like yours?” My mom had a fantastic rack — she always had.

“Well,” she said, “because you’re built more like your father’s side of the family and they’re all very small women.”

“Great,” I said, completely dismayed and slightly mad at my father.

My mom laughed again and said, “Don’t worry about it. Your time will come.”

It was the last Judy Blume book I ever read because, fiction or not, the bitch had lied.

Sources Cited
Blume, Judy. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Bradbury Press, 1970.