Stamped: April 12th, 2007 | Toggle Similar
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It was a gorgeous September morning in 1995 when we packed the last of our belongings (which consisted of about two pots, a rickety bed and a used pink couch) in the U-Haul and started out on a 700 mile road trip to begin our new life together.
My first husband had been one of my best friends throughout high school. As such, he’d been privy to many of Thelma & Louise’s wild nights out. In short: I was a boob flasher. Many a Saturday night consisted of stops at Sonic and drives around town gracing any driver who would pay attention a glance at my girls who, once upon a time, were a perfect pair of delicious perkiness.

(Hold on. I need a moment to grieve.) Okay.

Since most habits die hard (despite holy matrimony), we weren't 20 minutes out of the city before the ta-ta expose began. We both hooted and hollered and found enormous amusement in the faces of stunned drivers. What made this exhibitionism show all the more exciting was the fact that because we were in a U-Haul we were high above most of the drivers and therefore, I could really jolt them with the sudden shock and awe of bare breasts. “Our” 1970 Chevelle was hitched on the back of the U-Haul and had the words “Just Married” plastered on the back window in white shoe polish. Three days into marriage and we were already on our first big adventure.

The drive from Houston to Panama City, Florida is about 13 hours. For the better half of that drive I was a flashing guru - a connoisseur of titty-titty bang-bang. Somewhere along the 20 mile bridge in Louisiana we came along side a coach bus. For those of you who’ve perhaps dabbled in a little highway debauchery you know that buses are the coupe de ville of highway transportation. As I rolled down the window I turned my body towards the fresh air and Thelma & Louise waved with majestic opulence. Remember, this was before the girls were censured by a most damaging round of pregnancy X2. ::sigh:: But I digress. This is not a story of loss, but rather a story of humility and caution. If you manage to also laugh at my expense, then consider it a story of humor as well.

As we passed the bus carrying passengers unknown (due to tinted windows) I felt a sense of extreme glorification. No doubt I’d convinced myself that I was bringing a little bit of unexpected joy and happiness on an otherwise extremely humdrum journey along I-10. Considering we were in fact in Louisiana humdrum is a gross understatement.

Several flashings, and a state later, I was suddenly broadsided by a wave of emotions completely foreign to me:shame. What was this unwanted sense of right that had overcome me? I didn’t like it one bit. I expressed my feelings of bad conscience to my husband. Thankfully, like any good spouse, he evaluated the situation and offered these wise words: “Why are you feeling bad? It’s not like you’re ever going to see these people again. Show those titties, girl!”
Bless the beacon of rationality. He was right and so I continued on my 1995 Thelma & Louise Exhibition Tour with earnest dignity. After all, I was bringing tidings of joy to an unsuspecting world of mundane highway drivers.

We only stopped three times on that 13 hour drive. I can’t begin to count the number of vehicles that the girls gave a hearty hello to. But, by the time we’d reached our destination the girls were spent and were asleep snuggly in room 34B.
We walked into the lodging lobby at around 11pm and were puzzled to see the room filled with guys–a baseball team to be exact. Good god, of all the times to look as if I'd just spent 13 hours in a decrepit U-Haul it had to be then, in front of 20 or so hotties. Sweet. Anyway, as we stood behind a group of them at the counter one guy turned around and looked at my husband. Suddenly he gained a big smile, reached out to shake my husbands hand and said, “Congratulations”. In the fleeting seconds before the next words flowed from his lips I tried to conjure up any reason as to why this guy would be talking to my husband, let alone congratulating him. Being a naïve young lass I decided that they must’ve known each other from school and that he was simply offering congrats on the fact that we'd made it safely. Weirder things have happened (and were certainly about to). Then, without warning ,the guy said the most improbable statement in the history of the known universe (at least in my universe): “Yah, man. Congratulations on the marriage”. Sensing the perplexed looks on both our faces he then followed it with, “we’ve been following you in the bus since about Louisiana”.

I. Kid. You. Not.

Why the forces That Be didn’t strike me dead right there on the spot I will never know. It probably took less than 5 seconds for that guy to utter those words, but to this day it plays out in my mind as if on permanent slow-mo.
Turns out that bus we passed –the one that I had taken such glory in showing my tits to back on the 20 mile bridge- had been with us for the bulk of the trip. Not only had I given them a full frontal display of Thelma & Louise (something about majestic opulence??) as we passed their bus, but they had seen sporadic repeat performances along Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and finally, Florida. And there we were, face to face..uh, face to boobs. Whatever. Within seconds all eyes were on us. My stomach fell to my toes and my face began to radiate with the unmistakable burn of humiliation. My husband, bless him, managed to choke back the wild throws of laughter waiting to explode until we were out in the parking lot. Oh sure. It's not like you'll ever see these people again. Clearly the man didn't bank on my knack for bizarre coincidences.

Apparently, when we made our last stop off the highway after entering Florida the bus had stayed on course to the base which is why they had arrived before us. Turns out they were members of the base baseball team and had been driving in from a tournament in San Antonio when we met up with them on the highway on our way out of Houston. How neither of us noticed the bus's continued presence, to this day, escapes me. Then again, I suppose it's not all that surprising since we were the sort of flaky nitwits who got thrills while riding in a U-Haul flashing boobies across the south.

That story brought us years of howling laughter. We’ve long since divorced, but it remains one of my all time favorite memories shared during our marriage. Whenever I tell the tale of the 1995 Thelma & Louise Exhibition Tour I'm met with utter disbelief, but I assure you it’s a bona fide part of my outlandishness. I am convinced that there is not another soul on the planet that this would happen to and is further proof of the inescapable curse that I’ve carried with me all my life: if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

Sometimes I humor myself in thinking that perhaps I was the catalyst for Joe Francis’s multimillion dollar industry. Perhaps he was one of those opportune drivers along I-10 back on the September day in 1995 trying to scheme his way into fortune when Thelma & Louise bestowed him with a concept that couldn’t fail. Hell, I'll convince myself of anything if it'll shed an ounce of fortune to my misfortune.

The days of random Thelma & Louise showings are long gone. Unless, that is, I've got a couple of amaretto sours in me, in which case, all bets are off. Only now, instead of that "majestic opulence", viewers are unfortunately acquainted with the dark side of gravity. Hard to believe that alone hasn't stopped me. Or maybe it's not…all things considered.

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