Growing up, I liked Connie’s house. It was grand. Her dad being a preacher an all, they moved around to parsonages and in this particular move, the house they lucked into was a two story, double staircased, window-on-the-stair landing, beauty. It was my pleasure to stay the night at her house.
Connie was rail thin and tall and on the excitable side. We had pears and cottage cheese salad on the weekend nights I stayed over. This salad was something new to me. There was something else new to me that I learned from Connie on my sleep overs. She liked to wear a girdle. She liked it so much she wore it while she slept.
Now I have to tell you, I didn’t understand the function of a girdle during the daytime and especially Id didn’t understand it at night.
“Connie, what is a girdle supposed to do?” I asked her, in my memory, ready to understand.
“It makes you feel all together,” she explained, unsatisfactorily.
“What part of you doesn’t feel altogether?” I asked her, totally unconvinced and a little bit concerned now that I knew this proclivity. “You need to feel altogether while you sleep?” I continued.
“Maybe you should just try one,” she said happily, completely unconcerned that I was beginning to look at her as if I didn’t know her.
“I don’t feel like I’m not together,” I told her. “Connie, you know how you told me you don’t go