Happiness hinges on hips that twist
into Calvin Klein jeans, size zero.
Strutting like a fevered Saturday night,
we prance past boys, chins cocked
over our shoulders like Brooke Shields
shows us how to do. Ruby-tipped
fingernails tucked in back pockets,
thumbs dangling on denim’s edge,
brushing our butts with each exaggerated
sway. Sixteen-year-old virgins playing the part,
practicing the moves of Hollywood starlets,
roller disco queens, and adulterous
young wives our moms chatter about
over Virginia Slims and whiskey-spiked tea.
Cake make-up hides our zits, Aqua Net
holds our feathered hair. Our favorite pair
of CKs, begged for on birthday gift lists,
holds our dreams. Our reward for salad bar
lunches, grapefruit diets, barfing up Taco
Bell and Twinkies when we have a bad day.
Friendships are built on Friday nights.
Kitchen forks gripped in our fists, lanky
bodies splayed across silky bedspreads,
a team of teenage girls working together
to force the gold-plated zipper up, up, up
until the magical click!