Sorting through my impossibly cluttered closet this weekend I discovered buried treasure. No, it wasn’t a pirate’s chest filled with gold and diamonds, but according to me, the two are similar in value. In a pile towards the back of the disaster zone, I was delighted to discover a photograph that I had given up for lost many years ago. Survivors of my savage closet are a rare find.
The picture captured two little girls of about six or seven in the midst of an intense dramatic production. They appeared to be waltzing, standing on a practice balance beam meant for gymnastics. One of the girls wore a pink leotard under what appeared to be a woman’s small silk and lace night gown. She was facing the camera, beaming, a pink bow holding her long blonde hair back. She was holding the hands of the second girl who was grinning mischievously over her shoulder at the camera. This girl wore a black fedora on her head, a leopard-print leotard and a man’s blazer. The blazer hung on her small frame, and gave her the look of a comical Mafioso.
Wearing the silk night gown was my best friend, Dana, and yes, I was the one with the troublemaking gangster in the Fedora. God only knows how we were inspired to dress up like this, but the end result elicited a long laugh on my part. I laughed again when I realized that it was only a couple of months since I had put together an equally outrageous ensemble from clothes and a huge pair of combat boots abandoned by her sister who had gone through a “punk” stage in middle school. More than fourteen years had gone by, and we were still goofing around like we had been when we were six. Typical Jordan and Dana, I thought.
Dana and I met at age three. Play dates at her house were always adventures because there was an endless list of things to do at her house. I have many memories of the two of us in her back yard exploring the frontier between the bushes and trees, among the plots in her garden, in the pool, and especially in her play room upstairs. We were graceful ballerinas together under the tutelage of Miss Sarah, which was not a fraction as fun as my six days a week of gymnastics. One of my favorite pictures from my childhood that I had kept track of depicts Dana, our friend and her future stepsister, Caroline, and I, dancing in the sun filled play room. We wore tutus, high heels, and enough bling to make Paris Hilton jealous. We were the princesses of the play room.
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