found itself atitter when the eleven members of the Rylstone chapter of the Alternative Women's Institute, a very proper women's service organization, created a calendar. Surprised folks opened the publication, and in place of the usual sunsets and pastoral scenes, they found the women of the club, aged 45 to 66, wearing strands of pearls—and nothing else.
“We partly did it out of devilment,” said Miss July, Lynda Logan. Devilment paired with ample red wine, and the spirited comaraderie of the group, fortified the women's resolve to disrobe and pose for the photo shoot. Giggling madly as they attempted strategic coverage with plants and props, the shoot was “tremendous fun,” according to Miss May, Moyra Livesey. The calendar raised over half a million dollars for leukemia research and was lovingly dedicated to Angela Baker's (Miss February) husband, John, who had died of the disease.
These cheerful, confident middle-aged women became an international sensation and inspiration for people everywhere who were tired of looking at what one Englishman called, “stick insects with pouty lips and pipe cleaners for legs.” “The Calendar Girls,” received thousands of letters from women saying that their bold spirit had restored their own flagging self-esteem. “We're in our 50s and it doesn't bother us,” claims Miss October, Tricia Stewart, “and that seemed to come across.”
“What?” I snorted. “You smoking something and not sharing again? Like, I'm going to strip down in front of all these maniacs and just Streak down to the field.” This was not something you did in L.A.
“Well, then you stay here. I'll tell you how it was.” She started untying her hiking boots. By the second sock, I was over my consternation. I mean, who was really around? And anyway, who would care? The truth was, clothing seemed optional around here anyway, with people sunbathing nude all over the place on hot days. Why not rain bathing?
We stepped outside onto our tiny porch, bare feet recoiling from the cold cement, towels wrapped around us, barely. Alegra touched my hand. “On the count of three, we run. If we run fast enough, no one will even know what went by. One, two, three….” We shot off the porch, heading down the familiar path, past our friends' doorways, past the offices, past the coffeehouse. No one was outside, and if anyone was watching us from the windows, we were moving too fast to know. The rain was pelting us, and our desperate attempts to keep the towels around at least our bottoms were quickly surrendered. At last, we felt the loamy forest floor under our feet, but we didn't stop running. It felt too good. Like we had leapt off the highest cliff and discovered we could fly.
I dropped my towel in a patch of high grass and ran alone until my legs gave out from under me. I found myself surrounded by bending field grass. I lay back, listening to my heart and breath, quick from the running and the daring. I could hear Alegra panting nearby. For one moment, everything made sense. We were pure, perfect. I stretched, and there was Alegra’s hand, a spark of sisterhood's promise passing between our fingers.
We wrapped our drenched towels around us for the walk up the hill, not caring about how odd we must look. By the time we reached our door, we had come to a few silent conclusions: That our bodies were to be cherished, that some moments are meant to be seized, and that there is no feeling in the world like rain on an unashamed heart.
—JENNIFER BERNSTEIN-LEWIS
“Each friend represents a world in us,
a world possibly not born
until they arrive…”
—Anaïs Nin
the 5 friends every chick needs
When we were mere chicks, we always had a best friend. There were other friends, of course, but the word best was reserved for that one special sisterfriend, soulmate, forever buddy—no matter the situation, we only needed her. Like Miss America, there could only be one girl wearing that satin sash glittered with the words, Best Friend. While your childhood best buddy will always be the sister of your heart, geography, jobs, and life in general make that singular reliance on one another impossible. Part of growing up is expanding your heart and your circle of friends along with it. Like any good team, a girlfriend gang evolves because each woman brings a unique perspective or strength to the franchise. In that spirit, we think there are 5 chicks that every woman needs in her court. You can get by with fewer if they can multi-task.
the “I've Seen You with Braces and Bell-Bottoms” friend
This is the one that knows where you live. Not only literally, but that figurative place where it all began. You bonded over jumping rope, passing notes, and gushing over teen idols. She knows your family, how you crashed your first car into a pole the day after your sixteenth birthday, and she didn't laugh when you wore a 32 AAA bra. Your friendship is based on the deep roots that come from knowing each other through all the big and little events that propel us into adulthood. She understands where you are coming from and helps you get where you want to go,
the biological buddy
This is the friend that mirrors your family status. If you have children, so does she, and hopefully her kids are close enough in age to yours that you can bemoan the dilemmas of potty training or car seats together. You listen patiently to her stories about junior, nod in the right places and then it's your turn. You swoop in in a crunch to babysit or pick the kids up from school and vice versa. It's a beautiful thing. On the flipside, this friend may be the one among your group that, like you, doesn't have children. Together you celebrate your freewheeling status at fancy restaurants where you couldn't find a high chair to save your life. You go to museum openings, see movies with subtitles, and indulge in marathon shopping excursions. Don't call me before 9 AM? No worries about getting any guff, she too is still asleep.
your own personal Martha Stewart
She knows everything from how to get candle wax off your cat's ear to what color shoes to wear with a celadon silk suit. Need a recipe for champagne punch? She'll fax over five of them and would make the champagne if she needed to. Roof leaking? She's there with some shingles and tar that she happened to have in the workshop. She has every tool, every recipe, and every magazine article cross-referenced and indexed, and she's as resourceful as the FBI, CIA, and Interpol combined. She is irreplaceable,
your sister-in-a-suit
She knows how much your salary is and was instrumental in getting it there by counseling you before your last big performance review. You share investment tips, career strategies, and the secrets of crafting the world's perfect resume. What to wear to that interview? She's the one you turn to. Powerhouse, confidante, and the Wall Street Journal in comfortable pumps—she's a source of professional inspiration and awfully fun to have drinks with after work, to boot.
wild woman
You've always been curious about male strip clubs but never had the nerve to ask any of your usual friends to go to one. Bingo—wild woman is your ticket—she's probably done something crazy like work in one in the past. Nothing will shock her, and the word judgment (for better or worse) is not in her vocabulary. You can tell her anything. No matter how serious or benign, she takes it in stride on her way to the next ad venture. When you're with her, hang on tight and never use your real name.
a Little niGhT MischIef
This isn't only my story. It belongs to all 258 of us who, in the fall of 1955, arrived at Saint Mary's College, a small women's liberal arts school in Indiana, with pie-in-the-sky dreams
