The Soap Opera
As a teenager I thought my strict Portuguese parents’ aim was to make me look as ugly as possible. But their ultimate goal was getting me to the altar, still a virgin.
They failed miserably.
Dad: “You’re not painting your face.”
Mom: “No makeup until you’re sixteen.”
On my sixteenth birthday my mother gave me a sad 1950’s style flip-up compact, with a mirror, a flat disc of face powder and powder puff. Who used a compact in 1974? I divulged nothing about the cases of makeup in my school locker.
. . .
Dad: “Bikinis are indecent.”
Mom: “There are plenty of nice one-piece bathing suits.”
I chose the closest thing to a two-piece, one that would become a trend twenty years later for post-childbirth women, the tankini. I hated the boy-cut style bottoms and high neck tank top. The only redeeming factor was the bright color, orange. We went to Portugal that summer. As I lay sweating on the beach in my swim armor, the Portuguese women went topless. My parents relented.
Mom: “Okay, you can buy a two-piece — but no cleavage.”
Dad: “And no lower than your belly button.”
I stuck with the tankini.
. . .
