Plain Jane

I don't describe myself as pretty-in fact, far from it. Plain would be a better description. It's not that I haven't tried to look beautiful. I have endeavored endlessly, yet unsuccessfully, to craft myself into an image of those beautiful creatures who grace the covers of women's magazines at the supermarket checkout lines.

When tanning was the rage - and in some ways still is-my sister, Annie, and I would lie out in the sun in our bathing suits for hours. Of course, it probably wasn't the best thing to do. But we were teenagers and had a lot to learn. Knowing that the dark stockade fence around the property kept anyone from knowing what we were doing, we would grab the folding lounge chairs and lay around in the sun, staring at the sky, or the grass, depending on how we were turned, I discovered that there was a particular corner of the house where wasps had some interest, that clouds move slowly, that planes sometimes leave white-chalk streaks across the sky, unless they rise above the clouds, and that seagulls love sailing through the blueness.

An extension cord kept the television within sight, and girl talk always filled the tanning time.

Annie and I were closer then. We chatted about high school, and her boyfriends-but not me, I was the ugly one! We discussed make-up and bad hair days, although she never seemed to have bad hair days. Of course, she had naturally curly hair, which she always complained about having to tame, while I desperately wanted curly hair, but the price for permanents got way too pricey for hair that hangs down way past the shoulders.