Girl Next Door

As I was growing up in the sixties, I had a very well defined idea of how I wanted to look.  My points of reference were pictures and articles in Fifteen or Seventeen magazines and ads for suntan lotion.  Back in those days, the desired look was that of a California blonde surfer girl,  British Carnaby Street model, or the all American girl next door.  I studied pictures of the models for everything from Sun- In to Bass Weejuns, trying valiantly to replicate whatever I could to bring me one inch closer to those ideals.

I had a few challenges along the way.  First of all, I lived in Illinois, so trying to adopt the persona of a sun kissed teenager with long, straight blonde hair and a perpetual tan was almost laughable.  Plus, I had plain old brown hair that had a natural wave and had a tendency to frizz up in the summer humidity. 

I couldn't even remotely mimic the style of the English rose with heavy eye makeup, pale lipstick and mini skirts like Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton.  That was so far off base from my reality that I didn't even try to co-opt that look as my own.

That left all American girl, which was by far the easiest look to emulate.  I stocked my wardrobe with the de rigueur kilts, wool shorts, vee neck sweaters, knee socks and loafers.  Ambush or Heaven Scent were my go-to colognes, dabbed sparingly at my pulse points - all tools to help create the look and aura I was after.  Just one big problem remained.  Thanks to my dad, I had a whole face full of freckles.  Not a cute sprinkling across my nose, mind you - full out freckles everywhere.  Conventional wisdom may have suggested that freckles would work well with the whole girl next door theme, but in my version of that reality, freckles were the biggest obstacle to being cute.  Freckles made me plain and pedestrian and I detested them.

In the back section of one of the magazines, I found an ad for Stillman's Freckle Cream.  The ad  promised that the cream would bleach away the horrid spots and leave my skin creamy and even toned.  It wasn't cheap.  I had to save my allowance for a long time before I could send away for the cream.  I reasoned that two jars would be necessary since I was cursed with such an awful case.  After weeks and weeks of scrimping, I was able to buy the Stillman's.  I can't begin to describe the joy I felt when I saw the package containing miracle creams had arrived.  I was on the cusp of a fresh, freckle-free look, and I could hardly wait.

Every night I faithfully applied the cream, following the directions to the letter.  After the first jar was gone, I thought I saw a minor change and was glad I'd had the foresight to order two jars to get the job completely done.  Again, I diligently rubbed the Stillman's in every night before going to sleep, confident I was just weeks away from a new face.

Those of you who have known me for years know that this experiment failed completely.  At the end of the second jar of Stillman's Freckle Cream, the only thing I'd lost was some of my allowance money.  As time went on I learned that make up could help cover the freckles to a certain extent and the burning urgency to get rid of them faded and eventually moved to the back burner. 

Once I moved into adulthood, something surprising happened.  Summers in the sun made my freckles multiply and get darker and I found myself kind of liking it.  My husband commented on it once, telling me my summer freckle explosion made me look so cute.  Cute!  That was, after all, what I was always after - having a boy that I loved think I was cute.  It was another curious life lesson - realizing that whatever bits and pieces that make up who I am are as much a part of my identity as my finger prints.  To be sure, I'm not a Pollyanna that puts a fake positive spin on   my tendency to flabby upper arms or ugly eyebrows. And I'm pretty sure that ten years from now I won't find those things cute but I try not to get my knickers in a twist over things that are what they are.

Now I live in Florida, where the sun is usually shining.  My freckles are in perpetual bloom, which is something I rather like.  And every once in awhile when I'm looking in the mirror and see them in all their glory, I find myself smiling and think "Huh, who would have thought..."

When Daddy Let Me Drive

I've always thought I've led a fairly vanilla life.  No apologies - it's pretty much reflective of where and how I was raised and I've come to terms with the fact that there haven't been a lot of BIG exciting things that have happened on my journey (so far).  There are a few exceptions, though.

When I was fifteen years old I was able to get my driver's learner permit.  I was signed up for driver's ed at the high school I attended and I fully expected my parents to let me do practice driving as often as possible. Wrong.

My dad was an over-the-road semi truck driver.  He made round trip runs from Chicago to Battle Creek, or Kalamazoo, Michigan five nights a week and saw plenty of car accidents throughout the years.  I'm sure in his mind he projected my face on to the identity of each of the drivers in those accidents.  My mom was a little more laid back on the subject of me driving, but she had already abdicated her involvement in my learning to drive to my dad who was a "professional."

We had a  maroon Ford Galaxy back then.  For some reason, my dad was a die hard Ford man and we always had some variation of one of their boring cars - Falcon, Galaxy, and so forth. Since my dad was nearly 26 years older than my mom, we had already missed the window for him to go through a mid-life crisis and buy a red Mustang or (gasp) even a Chevy.  I really hadn't thought about the car itself too much, because it was really only a means to an end - the vehicle that would help teach me to drive. 

I was doing pretty well in driver's ed at school.  The instructor we had, one of the school's science teachers, wore lime cologne and made us listen to country music while we drove, softly singing along to songs I'd never heard.   It made me a little car sick.  I was, however, a parallel parker par excellence.  The instructor said if they gave out medals for parallel parking, I'd be the first one in line to have one pinned on my coat - he'd never seen anyone do such a fine job.

I tried using that as leverage with my dad.  He relented a little and took me practice driving in the high school parking lot.  Round and round we'd go:  in the front entrance,  back to the pool entrance and all the way back around to the front again.  Over and over and over.  I longed for open road driving and constantly pestered my dad for a chance.  "Not quite yet," he'd say.  "Soon."

My sixteenth birthday was approaching in four short months.  I felt comfortable driving out in traffic because of driver's ed, so I was reasonably sure that my official driver's license was just a few months away.

Then, one mid-summer day, everything changed.  My parents had gone to trade in the Galaxy for the current year's model earlier in the day.  When they finally came home, my mom was smiling and my dad tossed the new set of keys in my direction.  "Want to take the new car for a spin?" he asked.  Never one to turn down a chance to drive - especially a brand new car, I grabbed my wallet and headed out the front door with him.

In the driveway, instead of another nondescript Galaxy, there stood a sleek and proud gold Gran Torino with a sporty fastback and (be still my heart) racing stripes!  I couldn't have been more surprised if I'd found James Bond's Aston Martin in the driveway.  This was ours???  And I could actually drive it?

We drove up and down the streets of my hometown that day and many more that followed.  I felt  special and noticed - feelings that were a bit foreign to me. Something in the magic of that car made my dad lose some of his fear that I'd get in an accident and he took me driving frequently. I really believe that car also gave me more confidence in myself.  It also made me realize that my parents still had the ability to surprise me, which was a bit of a surprise in itself.  

Yes, for the most part my life is still vanilla (unless you count two sets of twins as exciting...).
Oh, there have been some exciting times and memorable ones, too, but that summer day that I slid into the front seat of the gold Gran Torino and turned the key in the ignition ranks up there with the memories that I cherish the most.