Out of exasperation for my warped self-image, Mom took matters into her hands and enrolled me in a charm class, acting upon the theory that a woman's confidence was directly related to her appearance. I objected, but Mom insisted that I go. Thus, with reluctant steps and an uneasy stomach, I drove to my first class. Students were challenged to enhance unique features with which they were born. Rather than criticizing oneself, the emphasis was on improvement. This involved a thorough evaluation wherein one's traits were honestly viewed, after which a commentary was meticulously written for the instructor. Every student was given an individual make-up consultation, and as a weekly assignment, we were to come to class wearing make-up and proper attire. We learned the correct way to walk, sit and gesture, and were instructed concerning hair care, manicures, diets and exercise. The most beneficial aspect of the class from my point of view was learning. . .or perhaps simply remembering. . . that no one was perfect. Moreover, vanity in carefully measured doses was not frivolous; beauty dealt more with the ability to project one's inner self than painting and displaying the surface characteristics. Though it may sound shallow, the compliments which I received in class by my instructor were the stimuli I needed to reinforce the image reflected in my mirror. For the first time in months, I felt good about who I was on the inside, even though I had to begin my "renovation" on the outside. Toward the middle of July I was able to escape in every sense of the word when Norm and I took our second vacation together. I knew the week would grant me time and distance required to objectively view my troubled "romance." The trip meant a chance for both fun and reflection. We stayed, once again, in the basement level unit of last year's motel. Upon entering, we quickly noted that no changes had been made. The same relic radio still graced the dresser, and the same avocado crushed velvet bedspread sagged drearily to meet the worn carpets covering the floor. It was somehow a pleasant sight, albeit the fact that the place desperately needed attention; I guess it was like a worn out pair of tennis shoes, ugly yet be-loved for the sake of the mileage and memories which they represented. The following morning, as we strode toward the car, we truly felt at home when we noticed the sadistic mailman of the previous year busily engaged with Marion. We looked on with amazement. The one undesirable factor of last year's vacation had reappeared! Hoping to escape recognition, we quietly loaded the car while he jawed away, absorbed in his story of the hour. We might have slipped from the parking lot had it not been for Marion's eyes flicking repeatedly from him to us. We both had one leg in the car when a huge bellow resounded from his direction. "Hey! Weren't you the folks with the Dart?"