Mrs. Davy Jones. This is what I wrote all over the inside front over of my three-ring notebook in 7th grade. I couldn't write it on the front cover because that was plastered with "Mrs. Paul McCartney." And there was no room on the back cover because that was reserved for "Mrs. David Cassidy." (A perfect name, incidentally. Not only did the cutest member of the Partridge Family have my father's name [David], but the last name "Cassidy" also provided a second chance to dot the "i" with a puffy heart.)
With a blue Bic pen, I publicly announced my Mrs. status with selected members of the Fab-Four and Fab-Five. In a fog of infatuation, I repeatedly wrote my married names on my notebook, sketching over the letters a crazillion times until the cardboard showed through the linen cover. This, I thought for sure, was a testament to my true love for heartthrobs Davy, Paul and David. Engraving their names was also the perfect activity for appearing like I was taking notes as a junior high school teacher (we didn't call it "middle school" back then) bored the class with lessons on pyramids and Pygmies.
What was it about this dishy selection from the Monkees, Beatles and Partridge Family that caught my fancy? Was it their musicianship? Their adorability? Yes. Yes ... and let's be frank: there was something about their bangs. The way they lay perfectly flat on their foreheads, or in the case of David Cassidy, ever so slightly parted in the middle, as if a springtime zephyr had made the bangs wisp to the sides.
These pop-stars had a boyishness that any 13-year old would fall for. I loved fantasizing about the possibility of living in Manchester, Liverpool and/or Los Angeles. At different times. All at the same time. (Teenagers can't make up their minds.) The fringed faces of Davy, Paul and David brought on flushes of blushing that flatter only girls in early puberty. (Just like hem-defying mini skirts.)
So here is my Big Bang Theory. Not everyone can wear bangs. If you don't have the right face, they can squish your features. But if you're a guy who can sing, write music, perform undaunted in front of screaming, near-faint teenyboppers, and look good in bangs, I was likely to publicly pronounce (on my notebook) that you were my betrothed. And as I embraced my status as Mrs. Davy Jones, Mrs. Paul McCartney and Mrs. David Cassidy, their love songs took turns blaring in my head. "Daydream Believer." "I Want to Hold Your Hand." "I Think I Love You (So What Am I So Afraid Of?").
As we mourn the passing of our favorite Monkee, I wanted to share a few more reflections on why Davy was one of my top crushes: he unabashedly played the pipe organ, rode a unicycle with aplomb, and wore well-coiffed bangs. He was also one of the only guys I have ever known who looked great in a Nehru jacket.
My seventh grade notebook is proof of my wishful, and fickle, thinking on the pop-star marital front. Try to take away my windowpane stockings, Eau de Love perfume, the go-go boots and my entire collection of 45s, but I will never relinquish my girlish relish to be Mrs. Davy Jones. Mrs. Paul McCartney on alternate Tuesdays. And Mrs. David Cassidy on Wednesdays.
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