I once went on a blind date with a Hungarian springboard artist. A friend was working at the Medinah Shrine where the circus was performing, and she gave me a tour of the place and then we went to the circus train to meet Atilla. (I wish I were making this up. Mom, go look at pictures of the kids or something.) In his room (car? compartment? caboose?) was an old modelling photo of me that my “friend” had showed him when she said she’d like to set us up (oh, I think she set me up, all right). I started to feel understandably freaked out at the sight of this guy grinning at me up there on the wall, in a swimsuit and big 80’s sungalsses, and so I said hey! Why don’t we go meet the rest of the troupe? They were wonderful, though we had to converse in Spanish because they didn’t speak English and I, incredibly, didn’t have any Hungarian. They taught Jen and me to swing from the trapeze, though I was really bad at it and made a miserable dismount that left rope burns on my ankles. I’m aware that not only are there about seventeen jokes that could be made right about now, and that you may be beginning to suspect I’ve made the whole thing up.
Well, I didn’t. I haven’t even thought about that incredibly short and misguided acquaintance with Atilla and his satin shirt unbuttoned down to here for years, but for some reason the whole episode flashed into my head when I saw this.