The author of this article and I have something in common:
Emboldened by boredom, I decided to venture around the wall that separated the kidÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s books from the library proper. As fate would have it, the science fiction paperbacks were just around that corner and I pulled out three or four before a cover caught my eye. It was HeinleinÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s Friday, the one with the Michael Whelan illustration of the buxom butt-kicking sex-kitten on the cover. I read the first 50 pages while leaning against the shelves and ignored the raised eyebrows of the librarian as she scanned it and my card. In the intervening 25-ish years, IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢ve read it 20 times at least. This story of a genetically engineered galactic courier is like comfort food to me. Despite my adult interpretations (and, honestly, misgivings about) of some of the larger Heinlein canon, I own every last book the man wrote. Plus, I canÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t turn my back on Friday. She was my first — and best.
Friday did it for me, too. Everyone once in a while I see a model or actress whose face and figure remind me of the lovely Friday.