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by Marcy Barack
There I was at the Washington airport, garment bag slung over my shoulder, lugging a suitcase with a CPU inside, chasing my heavy sample case around the baggage carousel. Where's a sailor when you need one?
Time was when I didn't have to haul heavy luggage, change tires or buy my own drinks. Some young gallant was always sniffing around my thigh-high skirts and waist-length hair, looking to lend a hand.
"Hey, slim," called the old gents, offering to share a bottle on the stoop as I strode by. Wolf whistles rained down from the construction crews working the high-rises above.
Eugene McCarthy once spoke to a living room full of supporters, while keeping one eye on my carefully crossed legs. So what happened? About 30 years. Somewhere along the way, I lost my babe designation. Next >
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