my sister Nan, lucky David and I in 1974 (in the great age of tanning)
I went to see Ronaldo Friday in hopes that my super-curly hair might look at least a little normal for my big class reunion, which took place last night. But then mere hours out of the salon I was out moving a dining room set in the pouring rain and my hair just went crazy.
With 98% humidity again yesterday I knew it wasn’t likely to look much different by reunion time no matter how much I blow-dried it; no matter how hard I squeezed it between the searing ceramic plates of the flatiron. It was curly back then; why would my classmates expect any different now?
This picture above shows David in his John Denver stage flanked by my blond sister Nan and me, both of us in the kind of dress our cohort of women would wear to say a 5th reunion. (Halter tops were huge in the 70s.)
Dressing for last night’s affair all these years later, I knew I wouldn’t go the plunging neckline route.
Or the spike heel route (and really when did that ever seem a good idea for a woman?)
Would I even wear a skirt, or would I panic-buy some kind of glitzy slacks-and-a-tunic-with-shoulder-pads getup like the Golden Girls?
At 3pm I still didn’t know.
When I went to David’s class reunion last spring I wore a warm autumn-brown ensemble and could hardly breathe inside its tourniquet of a bustier, so the Ace bandage around the thoracic region was out.
In the end I was leaning toward my one good pair of slacks and a top handed down to me (handed up to me?) by one of my daughters, the more clothes-conscious one.
Anyway I wasn’t that worried. I knew that unless we all showed up looking like Crusty the Clown nobody was going to be paying that much attention, because the action is all on the inside by the time people get to be our age. Exterior things just don’t matter that much, and isn’t THAT a blessing and a relief. You know it is!