Cranky Is The New Perky

‘cause an 80’s revival won’t stop (thanks Belgian Waffle for getting that song stuck in my head). 

My lovely friend who I will call by one of her fond nicknames Marzipan, or Mars for short (not that she is saccharine sweet or composed of almond paste) sent me an email showing rompers.  For women.  In dreaded terry even (I haven’t the courage to go back and confirm this).  I won’t name the company as they will probably sue me and we would lose our new hitch hauler and my spouse would be most unhappy.  Let us just say they are called “City-type Clothing-purveyors”.  I retaliated in this fashion war by sending her a link to a pair of white, cigarette cut, calf zip denim capris.  For $178 bucks.  Sadly, I was in a store this weekend wandering around and stroking and looking fondly at the clothes (it’s what I do since I have no actual money to spend) and I saw the dark version of those capri zip jeans.  I was alternately fascinated and repelled and found myself reaching out for them.  “Stop it Jessica” I said (possibly out loud) “You threw these out in 1984 when you went all punk/goth/ whatever.  $178 buck!  Remember the electric bill.  Think of the children.” 

I suspect mine were acid washed, or at least artistically faded.

I am waiting for them to bring back those braided headbands that you wore across your forehead.  I had quite the collection.  I remember one pair that was white leather, white suede, and gold lame.  My mother has a picture of me meeting Coretta Scott King, tragically marred by the fact that I am wearing one of these creations.

And knickers (no, not Brit underpants).  Those cropped pants, often in corduroy, that came to and buttoned under the knee.  Try being an ultra tall, bean pole skinny, white chick on the #96 or the #70 bus and see what the comedians of the back row (every bus has them along with the same soda bottle that has been rolling around in the back for decades) do to you.  I recall them asking when the Mayflower was coming (among other things).

I know everything comes around again, and nostalgia is my drug of choice, but as much as I enjoy reliving the past I also like moving forward.  I have several large boxes of letters, cards, photos, journals that have made every move with me.  Most (all except 1 new one) of my friends are from elementary school to the college years.  I love Facebook because it has enabled me to find and reconnect with certain people again.  But like all real friendships the conversations can continue off the webpage and into real life.  Some of them I will be seeing in the flesh this summer.  And those who are farther away I will be visiting as soon as I can.

I went to DC to see The Damned in May – birthday celebration graciously provided by Mars and P.  and Mars was on her East Coast tour (slogan to be announced).  At the show Mars and I were obnoxious lunatics, not drunk on alcohol as much as adrenaline and joy and the sheer perversity of us and the way we egg each other on.  It was great seeing so many people who had not aged or changed for the worse.  Being back in a dark, noisy (no longer smoky) club felt as real and natural as my day to day life and job.  Considering I spent the formative years of 16-28 in clubs listening to loud music it should.  I was ecstatically, brilliantly happy.  It wasn’t reliving the past that made me euphoric – it was reconnecting and the possibility of all the shared future memories.  The past is inspiration and not the endpoint.

            

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