Thongtastic, darling
You may find this to be shocking news to hear from a woman in America in the early years of the new millennium, but I have never worn a thong. I could blame it on my weight or germ phobia or feminism or a dire fear of wedgies, but the truth is; I just never understood them. And it’s ok, really. I met a woman at the hospital who would become one of those lifelong friends whereupon meeting you know on a gut level that you’ve known each other through lifetimes and there is that instant and total soul recognition before they ever even open their mouth. I’ll call her Jacqueline. She was and is a paragon of twenty-first century glamour but with that wholesome girl-next-door twist. Jacqueline is six feet tall, looks like Carol Alt and has the unmitigated charm that gives her a star quality—mainly because of its endearing insecure undertones and sweetness to all she encounters. But she doesn’t miss a trick--and she would become my confidante and co-conspirator in the battle against the brain in the months to come.
At thirty-eight (yet looking at least ten years younger), Jackie’s life had been parallel to mine in many ways…middle-class background, kind and loving (if sometimes clueless) old-fashioned parents, Catholic upbringing and overachiever tendencies. A few differences were that her father drank while my parents were virtual teetotalers--except for the occasional glass of wine (maybe two on holidays) with dinner twice a week at most. My father’s drug of choice was his career as a highly successful educator. But our mothers may have well as been the same person…both beautiful and both married to successful men who were emotionally distant at times. In fact—my mother had even reigned in the mid-sixties as Miss Massachusetts which was an endless source of fascination for my sister and me growing up but a source of pleased embarrassment for our humble yet stunning mom. The story goes that my mother had accompanied her friend to a casting call for the pageant and was scouted from the audience to try out…the rest, as they say, was history and her biggest thrill was not getting her picture taken by the local paper in crown and sash but her first ever plane trip down to Miami for the pageant itself. Her affair with fashion continued off and on for the next ten years while she did some runway and print work and even a gig as a hand model for a famous jewelry line. My sister and I were walking with books on our heads before we could read and wearing makeup before junior high.
