The Girl in the Shocking Pink Dress

It was always going to be a winner, that shocking pink dress.  I LOVED it from the moment I saw it.  It was a loose shift-type of dress in crimplene with a tie belt in the same material.  My 16-year-old light must have shone like a homing beacon and I felt fabulous.  Being the era of mini skirts, the dress was, of course, far too long for my liking, but I could sew reasonably well and took the hem up to a (just) acceptable level.  I bought some perfume – Shocking by Schiaparelli – which came in a shocking pink box.  It was musky and sweet and I doused myself in the scent until it made me cough and sneeze.

1968 was a great year.  I was coming slowly out of my little-girl shell, learning about being a young woman.  Mum gave me a book on etiquette – how to stand tall; how to peel your gloves off with aplomb (one finger at a time); how to walk with an umbrella; how to use cutlery and glassware correctly, etc.  I practised conscientiously until I had everything just so.

School was enjoyable; the academic subjects I’d chosen were well to my liking (though in retrospect, I wish I’d taken typing and bookkeeping – as they were far more useful to me later on).  I had great teachers, I had had a serious boyfriend (recently parted ways), happily sang my heart out in five different choirs, took piano lessons and attained Grade 8, was winning medals and prizes in speech and drama, and had a dream job in the school holidays in a forerunner of a $2 shop.  I’d given up Girl Guiding to concentrate on my school studies, and no longer went to tennis on Saturdays.  I hadn’t been kissed for a while - ha ha.  Biking everywhere in safe, small-town New Zealand, I don’t think I feared anything that year – and it got even better.

One Sunday evening, I wore the shocking pink dress to church.  Afterwards at our Anglican Youth Group, as I played Monopoly with a group of friends, long-suffering Teddy R. (yes, he of the slapped face and unrequited love) said he wanted to introduce me to John, “he’d like to meet you”.  And there he was – THE ONE - a nice-looking, polite, friendly young man, a couple of years older than me who was a bit shy and cheeky and who had twinkly eyes, just like my father’s.  So, we talked for a while, and Teddy, bless him, excused himself so that John could play Monopoly with our group.   

    

John said he’d seen me in the choir at church and knew that I worked for Cliffie Howarth.  He asked me out on a date and I said I’d have to ask my Dad.  I was full of trepidation; as far as I knew my parents didn’t know him or his family, but, as soon as I timidly asked my father for permission, he said that was just fine.  John had previously turned up at Dad’s workplace, sought him out and asked for his approval.  Impressed, Dad said yes, but only if Annette wants to go out with you; it’s up to her.  

And so, by the end of 1968, I’d been soundly kissed yet again and was madly in love.  When John and I met the night that I wore my shocking pink dress, I had no idea that our friendship and subsequent family involvement would lead where it did, nor just how crucial it would be in the years that followed.  But, of course, that's another story for another time.

It fascinates me how couples meet each other.  In our case, Teddy, our mutual friend, was a person we both trusted and so could facilitate our connection.  We were both in the same social circle, sharing similar values, and we liked each other straight away.  Being platonic friends first is a great idea and, I believe, fundamental to creating successful bonds.  I wonder how that works today with online dating, the early expectation of a romantic and sexual relationship and the diminishing need for family and friends to play their part.

Life is about trusting your feelings, taking chances, finding happiness, learning from the past,          and realising how everything changes in a heartbeat.