My JFK story

... has nothing to do with JFK. This Diana woman, she was my JFK, because like 9/11, I know where I was when I heard (Glandork Park Fest, 1997; skipping Spanish 101 in 2001).

But more importantly, her divorce and messy separation were my first experiences with anyone I knew buying those magazines for a reason bordering on obsession.

My parents were building a house in Kentucky with my grandparents' help. When we got doughnuts at Rehmke's Market each morning, breakfast of champions, my grandma would pick up a copy of People ("because it seems the most trustworthy"), just to get the inside info those crazy Brits were doing. Mom and Grandma would tsk-tsk, saying "Camilla? Really? Have you seen her?" and I'll look at the pictures of William and go "Reaaaally? Tell me more. I'm interested," the I'd squirrel the magazine away for cutting out pictures.

It was the oddest thing, to hear people walking by our little circle at Park Fest, talking about the car crash. I thought my mom was going to cry. I got goosebumps and did that uncomfortable eyes-watering, shivering thing that's really, really attractive and composed.

And we bought People again, and this time I kept the magazines not for William, but just because. I saw the tunnel six months later, in Paris, and I did that eyes-watering, shivering thing again. See, she kinda reminded me of my mom, being the same age, the whole divorce thing, the ever-present paparrazzi. I might have imagined the last part. But still. I hate it, so I watch Dateline and read the wire stories and do my own tsk-ing about Camilla.