I remember painting flowers on my hands and face, as well as wearing preppy madras plaid skirts and mohair sweaters. Style was all over the place. I can still remember one girl a couple of years older (her name escapes me) who had a pair of granny boots that were to die for. We were in granny boots one day, white go-go boots the next, Mary Janes the next. And right in the middle of it all was little Karen (with Marion by her side), just trying to figure it all out. We were something, all right - I don't know what, but we were something. I'd like to go back for just a little while, and revisit those innocent days that seem like just last week. I wouldn't want to stay too long, though. Being 55 might be harsh at times, but not nearly as unsettling as being 13, wondering if anyone is going to ask you to dance, or if your outfit is cute enough (some things never change), or deciding to defy your mother (what does she know?) and shaving your legs anyway because you are a hairy ape. Those are rough times, I don't care what anybody says, and definately not for the faint hearted. We only lived through it because we didn't know any better.