who be monica?
Posted by Guest blogger: WSW is a writer, editor, sporadic blogger, mom, and long-time friend to founder, designer, and creative Monica Wright at youbecheeky.com on 26th Apr 2019
I
love this photo of Monica—mysterious young fashion maven at 16
Part I.
It was 1984. Orwell’s year. (Though only one of us had read him). Freshman year of college, summer orientation. The setting was a youngish California University amidst the asparagus fields of Orange County. I was a tall, shy blonde with a portentous name of double syllables. Although I’d attended several different high schools, the last one had been a woodsy private school among the foggy estates of Pebble Beach, and it had formulated certain ideas about who I was, and who I wanted to be, and this Southern California university definitely wasn’t “it” for me. Its mascot was an anteater. I hadn’t even gotten into the dorms.
WSW: Guest Blogger
But in the hours before orientation, in the corner of the housing office, I beheld a glowing figure of redemption: She was tall and lean and tanned, with dark hair carved into an intriguingly puffy, diagonal bob. (Remember—the 80s.) I don’t recall exactly what she wore—of course that would be important for a fashion website—but let’s just say I was a prepster with occasional dashes of mod, and she looked like a runway model for casual wear in Paris. She was obviously cool—way cooler than me. If I’d dreamed up a new best friend, at least aesthetically, that’s what she’d look like—warmly familiar, yer refreshingly different.
I overrode my inhibitions, summoned up some “first-day” courage, and strolled over to where she had placed a pile of bulky off-campus housing binders.
“Uh, Hi. Excuse me. Are you looking for housing too?” I asked.
Monica—because it was Monica now, the person, and not the fictional fashion trope— glanced up briefly.
“Yeah, but I’m working through these now. There are others over there.”
She gestured at the shelf of binders, and then bent her head back to her task.
“Okay. Thanks.”She thought I wanted her binders!
Tears pricked my eyes. I retreated. A more confident freshman would have dumped a load of binders down next to her and forced some social interaction, but that wasn’t me. I loitered a few moments, pretended to scan the “house shares,” then power-walked to the library to figure out how many months it would take me to transfer schools.
Monica and I have discussed this initial meeting several times. She literally has no memory of it, although she concedes to being in the housing office. But now that I know her—and myself—so much better, I recognize our classic survival patterns: She needed to secure housing for school, with no time for pleasantries. I just assumed my parents would figure it out for me, because they always did.
Imagine my shock a few hours later (first dismay, then delight) when I opened my dorm room for orientation, and there she stood—the dazzling freshman runway model—grinning expectantly. My roommate for the entire week!
Once we started talking, it was hard to stop. We discovered—quite giddily—that we were both from Northern California—she from a suburb of San Francisco. We were both English majors— “Us being English majors” became our favorite slogan—and we were both enrolled in Humanities Core, though I didn’t know exactly what “Humanities” meant, or how we were going to slave over essays of St. Augustine’s Confessions that quarter. We each had taken high school French (each secretly suspecting herself the more fluent), and we both intended to take ballet, because it seemed an elegant way to exercise.
Contrary to my first impression, Monica was—and still is—extremely open, friendly, and curious—though sometimes as inquisitive as a can opener, cutting a neat round hole in my armor to sample the contents of my life. But she is also oodles of fun. She sparked the covert, goofy, comedic side of me, the part I only shared with family and intimates. We laughed away the days, and danced away the nights on the volleyball court in front of our dorm with other new pals to 80’s pop (think “White Lines,” “Glamorous Life,” “Cruel Summer,” “Westside Girls,” or anything by Prince, Madonna, Tina Turner, or George Michael), capped off at the end of the week by a daring foray to a dance club in LA.
By the time freshman orientation was over, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was at the right place at the right time: Not only did I have a new roommate for the fall, but a wonderful friend for life.
P.S. If you want to experience your own version of Monica I hear she'll be in Lodi next. You can also sign up for her email list as well (scroll down to the bottom of the home page). She told me to tell you this.
Monica’s response:
Me--a “fashion maven??” I’ve not really thought of myself like that! (Ok—maybe in high school). And yet, I’ve come full circle—my first job out the gate from college was as an assistant manager for the Gap in SF at the crazy 5th & Market location (that no longer exists). I lasted a year and kinda hated it. (I basically used that year to plot my departure for France). And yet here I am back in the fashion industry with my own business of 13 years.
For me, going to college in So Cal was so exciting because I got to be on my own for the first time and away from home! And near the beach! We even could lay out in the sun in February!? Wha? You couldn’t do that in the 80’s in Nor Cal. (It wasn’t that hot yet like it is now)
Regarding St. Augustine…wow, that dude was my freshman year existential crush! For reals!
BTW, I reminded WSW that I was equally entranced with her upon our fated meeting (and remain so to this day)! While I don’t remember the details with the housing books (I don’t!) I DO remember being thrilled with that hilarious tall blonde walking into my room! We STILL laugh a lot!
One final note~we saw PRINCE together! Even if he was teensier than normal on the big concert screen, WE SAW PRINCE during the epic Purple Rain Tour of 1985! That was just one of many shared adventures with WSW in our 30 ish (so far) years of friendship!
