The Diamond Hoops
I spotted the hoops at Harry Winston’s on 5th Ave. and pointed them out to my racket jockey boyfriend. Ranked #1 at the time, he promised them for my birthday. But then Wimbledon happened. He got whipped. Badly. And swallowed a fistful of Seconal. Of course the press blamed me for it. Right? Because I was off working and not there to hold his hand. So I invited them all to kiss my ass—that made headlines, too—and purchased the diamond hoops myself. But I couldn’t wear them. For ten years I kept them locked away in a safe-deposit box. But finally I took them out. And after a couple of deep breaths, I put them on. It was bananas. Now I couldn’t take them OFF! I started wearing them everywhere. They became my energy source. My special sauce. The boom in my boom-boom. And here we are. I’ve been wearing them now for years. Every day. I still don’t cut a deal or sign a contract without my hoops. Isn’t life funny?