When I was three, I wore a purple romper with nine multi-colored hearts on the

front and fell from the Oriental Cherry Tree into the mud.

I was told to wash up.

When I was five, I wore a pair of starched, crinkly jeans and a creased straw

cowboy hat and rode around like a hell-bent-for-leather crazy

cowgirl.

When I was seven, I wore a cockleshell pink dress with overabundant ruffles of

lace to a restaurant.

When I was thirteen, I wore a pair of carefully rolled denim Gap shorts and a

purposefully untucked white Gap polo with nary a stain.

When I was fifteen, I wore a pair of skin-tight sand beige britches and an overly

expensive Grand Prix riding jacket to accept a mere slip of

ribbon with the words "champion" emblazoned on the

fluttering streamers.

When I was seventeen, I wore a silver-green satin dress that fell softly to my

ankles and had no back except for two criss-crossing

rhinestone straps so that men could say I was beautiful.



I came home and washed off all my make-up.