From Blume to Bombeck: Lessons from a Lopsided Life Launch
The first book I ever read cover-to-cover all on my own, without being assigned it, was Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. It passed around our bus and the neighborhood like a bootleg copy of Lolita, read in secret, under the covers, and with a flashlight. By the end of eight weeks you could practically hear the echo around the cul-de-sac of preteen girls chanting, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust” like a suburban Gregorian choir.
The second book I ever read on my own is what caused the real problem.
On a family road trip, after several hours of my mother laughing so hard her shoulders shook, she finally tossed a dog-eared book into the backseat, where my ten-year-old self found it. The title was If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? and the author was Erma Bombeck, who I decided must be a hybrid of philosopher, comedian, and suburban oracle.
Which means that in the course of my first two reading experiences, I went from chanting “I must increase my bust,” to worrying about Tupperware lids, grocery store indignities, and hot flashes before I even owned a bra.
While other girls went from Judy Blume to Nancy Drew, I rocketed straight from pre-puberty to pre-menopause with no stops in between. By age ten, I was already shopping the Sears catalog for elastic waistbands because I knew two things for certain.
- Puberty was coming soon.
- Menopause wasn’t far behind.
Margaret taught me to hope for what I didn’t yet have. Erma prepared me for the moment I might have it but misplace it and find it later in the refrigerator next to the ketchup. I was an overeducated child in all the wrong categories. By fifth grade, I still didn’t have boobs, but I already had strong opinions about PTA meetings, laundry science, and why mothers should receive hazard pay.
It is an odd thing to have your coming-of-age shaped equally by feminine longing and feminine resignation. One minute you’re praying for a bra. The next minute you’re learning that even if you get one, it will never fit right and it may end up in the dog’s mouth.
But this is what stuck with me from both books, long after my body finally caught up and my reading list grew appropriately and became less whiplash-inducing.
Longing is inevitable. Laughter is optional, but highly recommended.
That, I suppose, was the real education. | 
