It’s been over a week since Joan Rivers passed away, and I still can’t believe it. I grew up watching Joan on “The Fashion Police.” I loved her biting humor and unapologetic take on the world. When I discovered her documentary, “A Piece of Work” on Netflix two or three years ago, I watched it. Obsessively. I couldn’t get enough of Joan and her honesty, something we so sadly lack in our culture at-large.
During the time Joan was in the hospital, I Googled her name probably a hundred times, waiting for an update. My mother, an LPN, warned me that she wouldn’t recover. I didn’t want to believe my mother, but given her knowledge, I came to accept that she was probably right.
Still, when I saw the news on Twitter, I didn’t want to believe it. In my mind, Joan was timeless. She was going to live forever. My mother rightfully joked that it was probably because no one had a clue how old she was due to all the plastic surgery.
The day after Joan died, I was sitting at my desk doing work. I put on my sequined cardigan, called “gaudy” by my boyfriend, making it the perfect tribute to a lady who knew no bounds.
(For the record, I also drowned my sorrows in a pint of ice cream, but the cardigan story worked better for this post.)