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I can still remember the first time I saw her. She was walking with a much older man that I assumed was her dad. Her brown hair was pulled into a ponytail type thing that came out from the left side of her head. She had on an oversized turquoise shirt with a black t-shirt covered in sequins underneath…
It was 1985; I was 13 and had just beheld a goddess at the baseball card show. Looking back with the experience that years bring, I have often tried to unearth if she really was as beautiful as I first imagined, or if the impact of her appearance was simply some sort of ode to the relativity of all things. In essence, I have tried to discern if she really was as awesomely radiant in an absolute manner or if she appeared so simply because she was the only other girl of my age in the entire Ramada conference room that day. The crowd at baseball card shows in those days was predominately male and could be sorted into two general categories. First was the pre-to-young adolescent cohort. This was made-up of kids that were old enough to have some sort of job that provided income for their baseball card habit. They were also old enough to be trusted by parents to walk or ride a bike to the Ramada without stopping to take candy from strangers or getting into a rusty Dodge van with a man that promised to show you his pet turtle. We were a decidedly pimply lot with greasy hair, greasy smiles and pale skin from marathon baseball card trading sessions in basement entertainment rooms of friends and relatives. ...
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