Two Uniboobs to Rule Them All (Part 2)

"You're not down and out, when you're down and outgoing"- Corin Raymond

Out of the loop? Catch up on Two Uniboobs to Rule Them All Part 1!

If Lainey and I were going to officially band together, we’d have to take our friendship outside of the classroom. 

One day after school, we walked over to the Georgetown Marketplace to do a trial run. The town’s only indoor mall housed a generous collection of orthopedic shoe stores, both the Northerns: Getaway and Reflections, and the mandatory party place that sold rubber poos. 

It was a place to see and be seen.

Sitting in the middle of the food court, across from the highly-regarded Kung Pao Wok, we cracked open a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Like vodka-drinking vets of the Soviet Army, we ate donut after donut, matching each other’s cadence and conviction until the box was empty. 

I was impressed by Lainey’s stamina and confident laughter. She liked my commitment to the cause.

While Lainey didn’t have acne nor a side-burned Judge’s wig, she did carry carte blanche for bullies in the early 2000’s: a full figure. While pot-bellied myself, her house was a rare place where my own snacking was encouraged for the purpose of weight-gain. Lainey and her entire family thought that I was petite.

Note: The only other time I was told to “eat up” was—you guessed it—at “6-and-a-half-footer” Laura Kowalski’s house. Mrs. Kowalski voiced concern for my bone health, citing my average frame as a fast-track to osteoporosis. I agreed that my skeleton wouldn’t be able to support an additional linear foot or two (in the event that the Kowalski bug was transmittable), and downed two glasses of whole milk with dinner. 

Lainey and I, like any respectable duo, annoyed and alienated everyone around us. 

Together, our two pre-teen halves formed one unit with the confidence of a dirt-bikin’, energy drinkin’ bruh. Instead of lurking in the shadows to wait out our puberty slump, we welcomed the attention that our polarizing orb emitted. 

With one another to lean on, we rejected any attempt to fit in.

And assimilate we did not. Our brand was notably eclectic. During lunch hour, we’d sneak into the empty drama room and help ourselves to the cheap costumes and props. Then, perched atop a makeshift stage, we’d play our recorders as flutes from the Middle Ages. Like anti-Sirens, we’d screech until we lured someone in.

Our shenanigans extended well-beyond the Centennial grounds. You could say that we brought our work home with us. 

After school, we’d hit the pavement around Lainey’s house on nearby Marilyn Crescent. From our clubhouse, we carried out pranks like knicky knicky nine doors, Trick-or-Treating the day after Halloween (LOL!), and sifting through the Yellow Pages to call classmates. 

One of our favourite rotary victimizations was phoning around to ask, “Do you have a pool?”.

If affirmative, we’d walk over to our unsuspecting classmate's house wearing inflated water wings and goggles. Upon arrival, we’d announce ourselves briefly, then beeline straight into their swimming pools.

Another ongoing joke was to call on our classmate, Devin Shelton. Devin wasn’t a cool kid, but he wasn’t a nerd either. He lived on the same street as Lainey and hated, to the point of actual distress, when we came over.

Let this be an indication of our public approval rating. 

Unfortunately for Devin, his mom, Cheryl, was a charitable gatekeeper.

Note: we never actually knew Devin’s Mom’s name, but rest assured, Cheryl was the vibe. 

Cheryl was the dying breed of old school Mom nice. She had a perm and used “gosh” as a swear word. Despite being decades underage, it was obvious that she rang up a few bills of her own at The Marketplace’s Northern Reflections.

Whenever we rang the doorbell, Cheryl opened the door with a smile (and a cotton turtleneck underneath a sweatshirt—both adorned with wild flowers and Canada geese).

Amazingly, Devin’s Mom found us endearing. Or perhaps she also derived pleasure from torturing her son. 

Either way, whenever we showed up, she invited us in, offered a cookie, and called upstairs, “the girls are here!”. 

Without fail, Devin would let out a raw, “Nooooooooooooo!”, like an action movie hero delivering a flying crotch-kick to save planet earth. Mid-cry, we’d run upstairs and barge into his bedroom. 

He never stopped being devastated by our arrival.

One afternoon as we were leaving school to enact the “community mischief portion” of our trademark (e.g. call on Devin), we spotted our greatest rival by the row of buses. 

Not only had this bully made us feel less than, he also liked dodgeball and played classic rock on a loudspeaker. To add insult to injury, he wore the same outfit every day: spandex leggings adorned with splash shorts.

Walking towards our nemesis, we called upon a higher power to hatch a worthy prank. We wanted to showcase our evolving bag of tricks. Moreover, we needed to reclaim our power.

As we drew closer, the lord giveth the perfect plan.

We decided that once we reached the end of the straightaway, we’d call his name, pull our pants down, and moon him.

It was a prank that was timeless, yet in desperate need of female rebranding.

And so, arriving at the end of the bus alley, we took position. The straight sidewalk would frame us perfectly. 

Swiftly, we lowered our pants and underwear. Then, with asses to the wind, I deepened my voice to unlock witness protection audio. 

“Hey, Mr. T! Look at this!”, I shouted.

In the distance, our great rival—and current gym teacher—swivelled his head sharply. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened.

Mr. T looked as though he’d awoken from a decades-long slumber—like he felt alive for the first time since Junior A.

Unwittingly, we had just unleashed the bro beast.

Instantly, Mr. T’s body tucked low to the ground. Without hesitation, the bull began to charge towards us. 

Note: With juvenile foresight, we couldn’t predict that our personalized mooning was the exact thing that any dodgeball enthusiast with an authority complex lives for. We had single handedly crystallized the reason Mr. T had gone into teaching. The mooning ignited a flame he forgot burnt out.

The chase was on!

And we were going to have to do something that no uniboob without a proper harness, should ever have to: run! 

Note: Earlier in the year, we had made a unilateral decision that our participation in gym class would be kept to a minimum. As a result, we invented a move called The Run/Walk™—a “pedestrian stroll with attitude”, you could say. When viewed from afar, The Run/Walk™ imitated the look and feel of a jog. 

To activate The Run/Walk™, you simply walk at your regular pace, but add a little spice to the arms. You’ve gotta get real loose and funky up top—like a real runner! Then, you pair the spicy arms with an exaggerated lift in the foot, and BAM! 

Warning: The Run/Walk™ is best reserved for laps of an outdoor track or warm-ups led by teachers/ coaches with eye astigmatism and/or visual impairments. It also works for public events, like Terry Fox Runs.

To outrun our gym teacher, we’d have to turn off The Run/Walk™ and truly perform.

After all, baring ass to a teacher (even of the gym variety) was a suspension-worthy crime. And being declared as “suspendee” was a line we never planned to cross. Getting into transcripted trouble meant we’d end up where all the other suspendees go: behind barz. 

Fortunately, the location of the “Great Moon of 02’” gave us a running start. 

We sprinted as fast as we could away from bus alley. We were only a block from Lainey’s house, which included a sharp turn off of the main drag. If we built enough distance, Mr. T may not see which way we turned.

Adrenaline-pumping, we ran with our uniboobs airbound like twin 747s. 

As we crested onto Marilyn, I dared to look back. I could see that Mr. T hadn’t yet rounded the bend. 

When we reached the front door, we tugged at the handle.

It was locked. 

Frantically, we had to make a split-decision: find the house key or hide behind the bushes. We opted for interior safety. Lainey dug through her backpack and pulled out her beaded lizard lanyard. Shakily, she inserted the key.

We burst inside, slamming the door behind us. Gasping for air, we army-crawled to the front window.

Daring to look between the blinds, we peered out to see if he was there.

Right outside on the front sidewalk, the bull stood. 

But as gym teachers often do, he looked confused. Puzzled even. He began to pace up and down the sidewalk, focusing between our house and the next.

Mr. T crouched down to look for signs of movement.

We laid motionless.

After surveying for a minute or two, he turned around and began walking away from the house. With furrowed brow suspicion, he crept along slowly. Then, he disappeared around the corner.

We exhaled with relief. 

The next day at school we were on edge. At any moment, we would be paged to the office, convicted of our lewd act, and be fast-tracked to a life of trading cigz for phone time. 

Plus, if Mr. T really didn’t know that it was us, he’d surely piece it together during gym class. Seeing our uniboob silhouettes attempt sport would unlock memory. 

But then again, he’d never seen us actually run before. 

As morning turned to afternoon, and gym classes came and went, we were never called out for our crime.

We will never know if Mr. T truly didn’t recognize us, or if the embarrassment of losing a once-in-a-lifetime chase to two 12-year-old girls had silenced him. 

Eventually, our fast and loose lifestyle caught up to us. We had our share of embarrassments, including the time Lainey flattened a chair in homeroom class. Under her weight, the vintage metal legs crushed like bobby pins. With the entire class in uproarious laughter, Lainey was scolded for breaking school property and forced to drag her carnage to the custodian’s closet for disposal. 

And despite narrowly escaping our close-call, there was a second ass-on-ass incident that led to suspension.

Lainey “pantsed me” in front of a posse of moody Madame’s (a collection of the school’s French teachers). She was written up for “sexual assault” and met with an unfortunately fitting sentence: a single day suspension.

My Mom let me, the victim, take the day off to comfort my offender.

—

Although there is no antidote to puberty’s Picasso face shuffle, there is an opportunity to rejig your thinking. Instead of laying low until close-together-eyes broaden, there’s freedom in embracing life outside of convention. 

When you’ve got nothing to lose and trust that shittiness is temporary, there’s genuine liberation in being on the fringe. Great shutdowns can create space to do whatever the hell you want.

And in the meantime, swollen nipples will deflate, Conair will release the first residential-use straightening iron, and America’s Next Top Model will make “Kowalski tall” cool.

True beauty is resilience—and a good haircut.