Christine Potter

I used to think being a grown woman was like Bugs

Bunny done up in drag—complete with the instant

wolf whistle. I used to think there was an evening

gown waiting for me somewhere. I used to feel sorry

for men and their boring black shoes that all looked

the same. We got diamonds but they only got cigars

which they had to give to other men if their wives had

babies. My father had just one, cellophane-wrapped,

printed with It’s a Boy! in fancy blue script. It was on

his dresser for months. By the time I was old enough

for diamonds, I didn’t want them. How would I know

electric guitars were going to have anything to do with

my life? I’d wouldn’t have guessed I was meant to be

authentic, that I would never need a perfectly round

brass compact with a mirror inside it and a matching

tube of lipstick. Except sometimes I still want to wrap

myself up like a gift in a gigantic box and explode out

of it, arms thrown wide, singing a show tune I never

even heard (but my husband says is totally American

Songbook). How did those things catch me anyway:

the sequin-spangled dress, the ocean liner, the dark

water with its silver ladder rippling up to the moon?