I was four when the above ad campaign for the now-defunct National Airlines came out. Four. The reason I stress my age is because for some very strange reason someone who I don't recall bought me my very own "I'm Judy. Fly Me" t-shirt. Yup. Chew on that for a moment.
Obviously this was a very successful, long-running campaign, because in defense of the person who bought me the shirt I'm pretty sure I was actually 8 or 9 when they gave it to me. Doesn't that make it so much better?
Anyway, I can't remember the exact conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:
Person: "I got you something that I think you're going to love!"
Me: "A Barbie? Is it a Barbie?"
Person: "Nope. Something better."
Me (now hyperventaling): "Oh my gosh, is it a Barbie dreamhouse? Please tell me it's a Barbie dreamhouse!"
Cut to me sitting on the floor in my "I'm Judy. Fly Me." t-shirt playing with my brother's GI Joe dolls and an old, cardboard box colored to look like a house.
Needless to say that any time I wore the "Fly Me" shirt outside the confines of my house I received a lot of attention.
Strange men would smile at me. I would smile in return. Then with the yarn from my pigtails flapping behind me, I would go on my merry way, completely oblivious to my recent brush with perversion.
This blissful ignorance continued until one day when I was walking down a hallway (where, I can't remember) and a man who I didn't know saw my shirt, paused, looked straight into my little, naive, almond-shaped eyes and said "I'll fly you." Just like that. I. Will. Fly. You.
Though I didn't quite understand what he meant when he said those words, I knew there was something very sinister about them. If Sunday school taught me nothing else, it taught me that sometimes an apple was more than an apple, and my third-grade instinct was telling me this guy's apple was rotten to the core.
Anyway, I can't say if I ran. Or cried. Or if I walked off pretending not to care, the yarn from my pigtails flapping behind me. All I know is that I never, ever wore that shirt again.
Fast forward to today. Now I'm no Freud or anything, but I believe that incident has shaped me in some significant ways.
First, it toughened me up instantly, which was a good thing given that there'd be more creepy-guy lascivious encounters to come. (Hello, future blog posts!) Secondly, I could be wrong, but I somehow think my abject fear of flying probably ties back to that very moment. Finally, and this is the weirdest thing, every time I go to a thrift store I look through the racks hoping to find my old shirt. I just feel as if it is out there somewhere, literally with my name on it.
I know this is not rational. I know it's most likely a product of my wanting something tangible from my childhood that represented my innocence before it was tarnished. In other words, that shirt will forever remain my Rosebud.
Obviously this was a very successful, long-running campaign, because in defense of the person who bought me the shirt I'm pretty sure I was actually 8 or 9 when they gave it to me. Doesn't that make it so much better?
Anyway, I can't remember the exact conversation, but I imagine it went something like this:
Person: "I got you something that I think you're going to love!"
Me: "A Barbie? Is it a Barbie?"
Person: "Nope. Something better."
Me (now hyperventaling): "Oh my gosh, is it a Barbie dreamhouse? Please tell me it's a Barbie dreamhouse!"
Cut to me sitting on the floor in my "I'm Judy. Fly Me." t-shirt playing with my brother's GI Joe dolls and an old, cardboard box colored to look like a house.
Needless to say that any time I wore the "Fly Me" shirt outside the confines of my house I received a lot of attention.
Strange men would smile at me. I would smile in return. Then with the yarn from my pigtails flapping behind me, I would go on my merry way, completely oblivious to my recent brush with perversion.
This blissful ignorance continued until one day when I was walking down a hallway (where, I can't remember) and a man who I didn't know saw my shirt, paused, looked straight into my little, naive, almond-shaped eyes and said "I'll fly you." Just like that. I. Will. Fly. You.
Though I didn't quite understand what he meant when he said those words, I knew there was something very sinister about them. If Sunday school taught me nothing else, it taught me that sometimes an apple was more than an apple, and my third-grade instinct was telling me this guy's apple was rotten to the core.
Anyway, I can't say if I ran. Or cried. Or if I walked off pretending not to care, the yarn from my pigtails flapping behind me. All I know is that I never, ever wore that shirt again.
Fast forward to today. Now I'm no Freud or anything, but I believe that incident has shaped me in some significant ways.
First, it toughened me up instantly, which was a good thing given that there'd be more creepy-guy lascivious encounters to come. (Hello, future blog posts!) Secondly, I could be wrong, but I somehow think my abject fear of flying probably ties back to that very moment. Finally, and this is the weirdest thing, every time I go to a thrift store I look through the racks hoping to find my old shirt. I just feel as if it is out there somewhere, literally with my name on it.
I know this is not rational. I know it's most likely a product of my wanting something tangible from my childhood that represented my innocence before it was tarnished. In other words, that shirt will forever remain my Rosebud.
"I'm Judy. Fly Me."
RSS Feed