If Only . . .
It was on again today, and I knew I would watch Pillow Talk as I have probably 15 times or more when I hit record. Turner Classic Movies announced the film as part of their August line-up. Just a few days before I had heard Miss Day (now 96, I believe) reminiscing about her movie career and how wonderful it was.
If only I had been Doris Day, but alas, the Fates had other plans for me. I was more slender as a young woman, and I did have a fairly sweet disposition way back then. But, the similarity ends right there.
I have green eyes where Doris had those dreamy blue eyes that showed up beautifully on the big screen. I was never planning on being a “career girl,” as my ship was headed to sail the seas of pedagogy as I prepared to teach high school (my fondest dream, and now I see with hindsight, a calling “devoutly to be wished.”) And, what with being a regular gal in a plain vanilla middle class family, I had a modest wardrobe.
Truly I wanted every outfit that Miss Day wore—from her gorgeous wardrobe in Pillow Talk (white empire slinky gown and red velvet dress with matching coat, just to name a couple)—to her motherly attire in Don’t Eat the Daisies. I can tell
you with assurance that even with her four sons of the silver screen, Miss Day never aged enough to look like a typical mother. She was gracious and funny and kind—and always gorgeous. She was also the sort of woman my father used to describe as “all wool and a yard wide.” For any younger folks out there that translates as something that is high-quality or a person who is true and genuine.*
And that, dear readers, is precisely why I wanted to be Doris Day. Every male co-star she ever had spoke highly of her as an actress, but most importantly as a dear friend. She was the real deal, on screen and off. She might have played in some light comedies, but she could handle drama as well. She was the Renaissance woman of Hollywood who always seemed to be playing herself.
There was a time in my twenties when I thought I came very close to being Doris Day. I was headed to my fiancee’s fraternity dance. After combing the Atlanta shops I found the dress that most closely imitated Miss Day. It was a black sleeveless empire number, and had a bow under the sweet little cape that cut off right under one’s bosom. Of course I had the clutch purse and shoes dyed to match its hot pink bow, that peeked from under the cape--and that was the touch that I thought sealed the transformation. I wore my mother’s “schwoopy,” long rhinestone earrings and long black gloves to accessorize. And for one brief, shining moment I at least felt like Doris Day.
Now I am 70-ish, have a child and a grandchild and wrinkles and lines and age spots, oh my! And still I long to be Doris Day. I would venture to say that her 96 still beats my 71. Some people are timeless and even when they actually age, our memories hold them suspended in that time long ago, and with that same beauty of face and spirit.
So, I sit and watch the screen, and covet the wardrobe still as I imagine I am Doris, and as I do, I hum “Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be . . .”