I love the 80's with my decrepit, barely beating 37 year-old heart.
Last night was a much needed girliefest with three dear childhood friends turned adult friends. The pinnacle of the evening of the was a trip back to Senior year through the magic of videotape.
A little perspective on 1986: Iran-Contra. Challenger explosion. Tommy Lee and Heather. Madonna and Sean. Mrs. Garrett. Ferris Bueller. A hot heterosexual named George Michael goes solo, a respected young actor named Tom Cruise is on "marriage" #1, and a black singer named Michael Jackson has a nose. To be honest, '86 doesn't seem like quite so long ago to me until I determine that Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen Twins were born that year. (I imagine a teeny little Mary-Kate fetus wondering, "does this placenta make me look fat?")
Over the years, I've had this nagging fear that I bounced through the halls of my high school with a poofy assymetrical haircut, fat eyebrows, and a Flashdance: What a Feeling ripped sweatshirt in every color. Last night it was confirmed when we hit Play on the VCR and watched our senior dance show in jumpy, staticky technicolor. No straw hats or sparkly suspenders here, this was a very seeeeeeerious performance of student-choreographed modern dahhhhhnce. And aside from the hair, we weren't half bad.
Which means there was still quite a bit of bad.
The truly heinous dances, we fast-forwarded through (take that, you talentless sophmores! We still control you!) until we came to my high school boyfriend in the most pretentious and unwatchable duet ever performed. Spotlight up. Two people. Earnest, faraway looks on their faces. Cue music. To the tune of...nothing--there was no discernable melody in the narcolepsy-curing piano piece they selected--he makes a shape with his arms, she makes a shape with her arms. He makes a shape with his body, she does a handstand. They make a shape together. Now hold it...hold it....and repeat. For six minutes.
I went on birth control for this guy.
But the audience still "whoo!"-ed and "yeah!"-ed because that's what you do when you're in high school and your friends are on stage. And afterwards, if it's 1986, you go out to your Datsun, put your $1.25 pack of Parliaments on the dash, turn on the radio and make out to Roxy Music, fully believing that this is how life will always be.
A little perspective on 1986: Iran-Contra. Challenger explosion. Tommy Lee and Heather. Madonna and Sean. Mrs. Garrett. Ferris Bueller. A hot heterosexual named George Michael goes solo, a respected young actor named Tom Cruise is on "marriage" #1, and a black singer named Michael Jackson has a nose. To be honest, '86 doesn't seem like quite so long ago to me until I determine that Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen Twins were born that year. (I imagine a teeny little Mary-Kate fetus wondering, "does this placenta make me look fat?")
Over the years, I've had this nagging fear that I bounced through the halls of my high school with a poofy assymetrical haircut, fat eyebrows, and a Flashdance: What a Feeling ripped sweatshirt in every color. Last night it was confirmed when we hit Play on the VCR and watched our senior dance show in jumpy, staticky technicolor. No straw hats or sparkly suspenders here, this was a very seeeeeeerious performance of student-choreographed modern dahhhhhnce. And aside from the hair, we weren't half bad.
Which means there was still quite a bit of bad.
The truly heinous dances, we fast-forwarded through (take that, you talentless sophmores! We still control you!) until we came to my high school boyfriend in the most pretentious and unwatchable duet ever performed. Spotlight up. Two people. Earnest, faraway looks on their faces. Cue music. To the tune of...nothing--there was no discernable melody in the narcolepsy-curing piano piece they selected--he makes a shape with his arms, she makes a shape with her arms. He makes a shape with his body, she does a handstand. They make a shape together. Now hold it...hold it....and repeat. For six minutes.
I went on birth control for this guy.
But the audience still "whoo!"-ed and "yeah!"-ed because that's what you do when you're in high school and your friends are on stage. And afterwards, if it's 1986, you go out to your Datsun, put your $1.25 pack of Parliaments on the dash, turn on the radio and make out to Roxy Music, fully believing that this is how life will always be.
posted by Mom101 at 7:58 AM
7 Comments:
Oh MAN!! This was HS for me--I'm only a couple years younger than you and this post really resonated. I have yet to watch the "Senior Follies" vidya for which I was an MC (we dressed up like celebrities for some of the skits--you know, really cool people like Paula Abdul and MC Hammer. Oy.)
Parliaments are hardcore, though. That must mean you were truly Artistic. I was always a Camel Lights kind of wuss.
Dare I ask, how big was the hair?
srj: I was so Artistic (capital A noted) that I started on Pall Mall unfiltered, then moved onto roll-your-own Drum before settling on Parliaments. I liked the recessed filter that allowed you to make that satisfying clicking sound with your thumbnail.
binky: 2nd grade? Oh god I'm old. Old old old old.
kristen: Not so big. I went the other 80's hair direction with shaved sides, poofy top, long bangs and occassional blue streak of Manic Panic. Think Duckie from Pretty in Pink.
On top of the pill, a friend of mine's disturbed high school boyfriend convinced her to die the hair surrounding her unmentionables with blue Manic Panic. (Please resist the temptation to run out to the drug store because it didn't work.)
I would love to see a screen shot of your former I love the 80's self!
You were a cool 80's chick, Mom101. Parliaments were/are my brand of choice. Highschool up into the present (I dabble in the smoke-a-ciggy at midnight when baby is asleep. I know. Shhhh.)
Okay, but did you ever smoke the Top Choice of All Artists, Goths and Skate Betties: clove cigarettes?
srj: but of course. Until that rumor circa 1984 that they make your lungs bleed. Bloody lungs=not sexy. Black, tar-coated lungs=sexy.
Post a Comment
<< Home