Absorbed in my computer work this evening, I’ve had the television on for background noise.  It’s tuned to the results show for American Idol.  (I already spoiled it for myself by glancing at Google news, inadvertently seeing a headline about the winner…darn it!  Why must they report that stuff when the program hasn’t even aired yet here on the west coast?!)

At any rate, I was typing away when suddenly I heard a familiar voice…one that instantly shot me back in time to those years that are the subject of my memoir project. Holy cow… Frankie Valli on American Idol.  Riveted as I watched Frankie sing, sounding pretty darned good after all these years,  I was a bit startled to see how he’s aged.  But, then again, I’m always a bit startled to see how I’ve aged, whenever I glance at that stranger who resembles me in the mirror.

Now that he’s done singing, my mood has shifted.  And it’s dawned on me that the only thing I really need in order to truly settle in during my next writing block is to listen to Frankie.  He’ll take me back in time, bringing every emotion out for full bloom.   Sherry, Rag Doll, and most especially Big Girls Don’t Cry, which was THE song I played endlessly when that baby disappeared from my life. I listened to it over and over again, for hours at a time, while locked inside my bedroom desperately trying to understand.  I wasn’t a big girl at all.  But I turned a corner on that day.  Big girls come in all ages.