OK. I confess. I have a crush on Harrison Ford.
It started off quite innocently. I was about 10 when my sister and I took our annual trip to Yonkers to spend a couple of weeks with my grandparents on Windemere Drive. Between traipsing here and there to see the Mets play , visit the Museum of Natural History or go to Coney Island, I was introduced to the first of what would turn out to be a long series of crushes on unattainable men.
Barbara Mahr was a few years older than me. She was a tall, leggy brunette with freckles and she was in love with Bobby Sherman. Hidden deep in her dresser drawers were black and white photos clipped from magazines of Mr. Cute. We sat in her bedroom and listened to the 45 of “Little Woman” over and over again until I could sing it without any prompting from my mentor, until I couldn’t get the song out of my head. That summer, before I left Yonkers, Barbara carefully folded one of those black and white photos in half and handed it to me. I stuffed it into my pocket quickly, secretly, like a piece of illegal contraband that I did not want to get caught with.
Davey Jones followed that. I became a Monkees fanatic. I’d practice my British accent while sitting deep in the recesses of my closet where no one could listen. Surely I could learn to speak like that. It was a little tricky splitting my time between the Monkees and Here Comes the Brides, and I figured that if Bobby Sherman didn’t want to marry me, well then certainly Davey Jones would. It doesn’t hurt to have a spare in your back pocket just in case.
The Partridge Family came next. I had a crossover moment back then. I found myself more interested in Susan Dey than David Cassidy but hey, either one would have done fine. I practiced putting aluminum foil on my teeth (Laurie Partridge had braces, if you remember). I didn’t need much. I just wanted to stand in. Sing a few songs with them. Go on tour in that big, brightly painted school bus to parts unknown. It all looked like so much fun.
I think I hold the record for most consecutive times of seeing Staying Alive. I bought spandex and practiced dance moves in my living room just in case they needed someone else to do those dance scenes with John. What was so great about Finola Hughes anyway? Oh right, she has an accent.
And then there is Johnny Depp. Captain Jack Sparrow. I sigh as I write this. Those beautiful brown eyes, those wonderful lips, that pirate costume….. But alas, I digress. Trust me when I say that there will never be too many sequels, too many seas for the Black Pearl to sail. If you build it, they will come… (or at least I will.)
Which brings me full circle. Maybe it’s a sign of maturity. Maybe it’s a natural progression. Or maybe, just maybe, as menopause knocks at my door, I have come to the realization that I can’t keep waiting for Bobby Sherman to propose. I’m sorry Bobby, I say apologetically, I couldn’t wait forever. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway.
I’ve moved on.