Perhaps the immortal words of Texas born author Dan Jenkins will suffice as a prologue to what’s going on here. In a recent letter, Jenkins described the Dallas woman thus: “The Dallas Woman has been to Acapulco more often than she’s been to Lubbock. She hasn’t been in as many private jets as the Houston Woman, who has been in more private jets than David Rockefeller or an A-rab. The Dallas Woman has picked up more guys in leisure suits at the Tom Thumb than most Women, but she has also traded them in more quickly. All in all, I’d say the Dallas Woman chews less gum than most Women.”
You get the basic idea. We haven’t approached the subject quite as, well, cavalierly as Mr. Jenkins, but we certainly aren’t all that serious about it either – serious meaning sociological. You won’t find any sociology here. We were tempted, but decided discretion was the better part of valor, particularly when talking about women, and especially when talking about the Dallas woman. Somehow, reducing that unique alchemy of femininity, grace, vanity, sensuality, common sense and man-wisdom that is the Dallas woman to sociograms and interfacial reflex indicators didn’t work. Also, sociology is boring and generally totally wrong.
Call this a sort of celebration, for lack of a better description. An overdue tribute paid to a rare species of the fair sex. Call her unique or just plain peculiar, the Dallas woman is different. What makes her different is not something easily pinned down or even broached. You know it when you see it. Sarah Hughes has it; so does Tara. Annette Strauss, lola Johnson, Margaret McDermott, Adlene Harrison, Louise Cowan, Norma Hunt and just about any woman you see at the Neiman’s end of NorthPark on a weekday morning have it too.
Call it a particular sense of self, if you will. On second thought, call it something that sounds less like sociology.