Ah, Saturday! And it was probably the first day I would really call summer: sunny, the promise of real warmth, and all the leaves were finally that rich green that said it warn't spring no more.

A perfect day for a run, starting in the early-morning cool, beating the shoppers' traffic, down the hill to lap the legislature, back up with the first of the day's heat matching the burn in my legs. Back then, five miles was relaxing, without real effort, without any ache or stiffness afterwards.

I could also run without jiggling. Or even a bra. So that lovely Saturday was also the day I decided to sell out. I was going to change my figure. Or lack thereof. Go the artificial, fake, toady to the beauty myth route. I was gonna get some falsies. Alas, my poor, feminist soul…

But it wasn't spring any longer, and I wasn't sprouting. On hormones for a whole two months and all I had to show was a new, nasty nipple-burn from jogging in rough tops. I wanted curves! I could be happy in my identity, but I'd be happier in my identity if other people could identify me!!

I wasn't willing to go the way of surgical enhancement - my younger sister was getting so large in the bust department that she was wondering about a reduction operation, and I didn't want to risk anything like she faced. Also, my mentor (and dental hygienist) Cassie (who'd transitioned and had surgery four years before), said some girls grew oddly if they'd had implants, and often had to have them removed. So scars, and nothing to show for them, except more scars. And she told of the dread 'numb nipple' side-effect of implant surgery, too - not to be underestimated as a risk.

So I wanted breasts, I wanted them now, and I wanted no risk to my future, natural, sensitive bounty. (Though my other sister didn't have much in the way of lush bounty. More like a kiwi-fruit. Cut in half…) But I looked most like my other other sister. The table-sagging-under-a-feast sort of bounty sister.

That was a weak metaphor, I know. But I'm not erasing it all :-)

So: breasts. How to make? Where to acquire? Naturally, I went to the source of all things informational regarding transsexuals: I phoned Cassie. Probably woke her up, too, since she was a party girl. Even after I'd been up for hours.

But she didn't seem all that put out and she told me, back in her early days, she'd used birdseed in a baggie, stuffed into a knee-high stocking. And it was only adequate, she said, and she wouldn't recommend them, but still the best she'd found. And I was not to order any falsies from any of the rags (that I'd mentioned seeing) 'cause they were all hard plastic and worthless.

And all the gels and stuff she'd tried or heard of just wouldn't sit right, except in total granny bras. Though she said that Dippety-Do worked best, if I went that way. Even if it was blue.

I remembered a certain water balloon fiasco, back in high school, and decided she was right, even if gels didn't explode when they leaked out. As I said: fiasco.

So, with no magic answer from Cassie, I went to the other source for all things transsexual (at least clothing-wise), and opened the Sears catalogue, Summer, 1982. (Oh yeah, it was summer, 1982. I forgot to mention that. Or that I lived in a sixth-floor apartment in Edmonton, Alberta, and had a good job with the provincial government, right out of university.) Back in the story, Sears listed (but did not have a picture, so they were hard to find) 'Mastectomy forms, weighted and shaped, in sizes A to DD.'

I called Cassie back, and amazingly, she'd never even heard of the Sears forms! She found her own catalogue and looked them up and was kinda blown away that such a tranny resource was right there - in white-bread Sears! She said, well, go girl! I had nothing to lose but my prairie-like flatness!

Well, yeah! Off to Sears I strolled, whistling 'Only the Lonely,' probably (I was addicted to the Motels back then), to the one downtown, on Jasper, with nary a thought that I was, to all appearances, a man. But then, It was the first real day of summer, and it wasn't like I was going to wait for another springtime to experience the blossoming of a natural figure, and it wasn't like I was ashamed of being transsexual…

The departments in Sears were easy to navigate: there were huge, overhead signs everywhere, and 'Ladies' Wear' was the whole of the south side. At the back, in a secure corner location, was 'Lingerie.' I headed right over.

There were racks and racks of bras, panties, foundation garments (really! that's what the signs said!) and slips and stuff… but no mastectomy form signs. Though they wouldn't put them on a shelf, really, I finally realized after wandering around for a while.

There was a rather pleasant, older woman at the till and since I needed help, it was her I approached.

"Excuse me," I started, and I'm sure I blushed, though I don't really remember, "I'm, um, looking for something I saw in your catalogue, and I know it's unusual… but I'm transsexual, and I wanted to buy some mastectomy forms?"

I'll give Sears this much: in this woman, they'd hired a pro. She looked at me and smiled as I spoke, and never even blinked, even when I finished. She just smiled a little differently as she went into 'sales,' rather than 'directions to another department' mode.

"Of course, and it's not that unusual, though most order through the catalogue. Do you know what size forms you want?"

"Forms?"

-

So I walked out of Sears swinging a blue bag containing weighted, fabric, breast 'forms' (bargains at two for $24, and an instant B-cup figure), two new bras which were a great fit and which hid the forms - properly adjusted, to boot - as well as a runner's bra that Karen assured me would help with my nipple burn.

It was still before noon, too.

I bet I was whistling something by the Go-Go's, too. Maybe 'Vacation.' I liked them almost better than the Motels, and I could jog to them on my Walkman.

Cassie always said I was a fashion victim as far as my taste in music went. I said punk was dead, and starting to smell, too. Then she'd tell me that New Wave was what happened when you bleached the teeny-tiny brain out of disco. Then I'd sing 'Don't You Want Me Baby?' or something like that. Besides, we went to the gay bar together and she squealed whenever they'd play Abba, so all her whining was a total act.

The sky was a deep, deep blue, there were puffy, little clouds drifting across it, just for the contrast, and even the traffic on Jasper was summery.

On such a beautiful, summer day, my jeans felt heavy and mannish, my runners ugly and artless. But, for maybe the first time in weeks, I didn't care.

Once I was home I was gonna pull out a top I'd been wanting to wear ever since I'd bought it in a fit of hopefulness and wishful thinking. And I was gonna wear it out after I called Cassie and Barb and told them they had to meet me at Sergio's patio for dinner, and then I'd pay the cover at the club. I was gonna show my best friends my new curves.

Spring might be over, and I might be late, but I was gonna blossom.