Bonding With Calamity Jane

In my early twenties, in college, my self-esteem and sense of personal belongedness to the human race at such a low, I looked to Calamity Jane for guidance. What did I get? Seldom bathe, swear constantly, and always wear pants. When encountering humans, retreat to the woods. Shed all feminine trappings and be one of the guys. And work quickly through your allotted boxcar of whiskey.

Calamity Jane, we shared a name and a genuine loathing for frills. I bought this postcard on an aborted road-trip to the Grand Canyon and kept it pinned above my desk, a little persona, pissed off, poorly dressed, and clearly ill at ease. Like a tiny mirror.The up side? Next to her, I felt glamorous in my scotch-taped glasses and Norma Kamali trench coat. But I was pretty sure that had I lived on the Western frontier in the 19th century, Jane and I would've been bar room buddies:

"Hey Calamity Jane?"
"What Plain Jane?"
"I've been thinkin'"
"About what?"
"What?"
"Thinkin"
"What?"
"Been thinkin'"
"About what?
"No you, you dim light"
"Why're thinkin about me? And you don't have to be such a horse's ass!"
"Yur a horse's ass!"

A brawl ensues.
The smoke clears.

"Calamity?"
"Plain?"
"Hand me that whiskey."



That was then.