Well, deare olde diary, here I am home early again from a date. This time it was with Larry, the Reverend Mister Collier's son, and I certainly had every reason to believe that his sweet kind gentle Lawrence would be different from other boys.
He isn't. We went to a movie, and he tried to hold my hand. I resisted, several times, and then when it seemed I had taught him that I am no easy girl who holds hands with just anybody at all, I let him. It was rather nice, although hands get a little hot and perspirey (I don't know if that's a word, but I refuse to say "sweaty"!) after a while. Anyhow, after a while my hand was not only hot and perspirey, my arm was tired and getting cramped, so I detached my fmgers from his and moved my hand to my lap.
He reached over there to hold it! With his fingertips touching me! I could feel them, right through my dress!
After that, understandably enough, I reached over with my other hand, firmly detached his from mine, and transferred it back to the arm of the seat.
He tried twice more during the movie, but I wouldn't have any of that.
Then, when the movie was over and we were getting into his father's car, he tried to kiss me.
"This is our first date, Larry," I told him. "I think you're moving just a little too fast, don't you? What would your father think, for Heaven's sake?"
He stared at me as if I were some kind of nut. I hate having to record the word he used, right here in my own diary, but I must if this diary of my Life is going to be honest. No, I won't! I can't! Weil, the word he used was the four-letter one, but what he meant when he said just two words was this:
"Screw Dad!"
(Understand that he did not say "screw", but the four-letter word meaning the same thing, and I will not record it here.)
I immediately went as stiff as a board, stared straight ahead, and ordered him to bring me home. He did, and without even apologizing. We did not say one word all the way home.
WHY ARE PEOPLE LIKE THIS?
(later)
It will be three months tomorrow that Daddy's been laid off. He hasn't been able to find anything else. Poor Daddy!
Poor us! I can tell Mother's very very worried, and money is just terribly tight. Oh yes, that reminds me. Although I agree with Mother that brassieres should be tight, I have definitely outgrown both the ones I have. (Oh if only God had blessed me with a diminutive bosom, like Mother's, rather than these… well. I suppose I am admirably suited to nurse babies, some day when I find a decent man…
Anyhow, I've had these bra's since my Freshman year in High School, and they're not only old and frayed and not too white any more, I have grown since then! They pinch. Mounds of soft white flesh bulge over the fabric. If only Mother would let me go to bed without wearing a bra!
Ah well, our Victoria says with a sigh, it's time for bed. My poor bosom feels so tight and painful, in this too-tight bra. Perhaps I'll be able to go to sleep on my back.