A certain birthday is creeping up on me. No…actually, it’s about to punch me in the face. It’s cocked and loaded and ready to shoot but I’m cool with it. Really, I am.
Last week I was killing time by perusing Ebay and Etsy for vintage clothes when I stumbled upon this:
I had that dress. I wore it in the early 90’s when I still wasn’t legally allowed to be in bars but went anyway. In fact, I rocked that dress back when Kurt Cobain was still breathing and astonishing the world with his rebuttal to 80’s hairbands. I wore the hell out of that tight little number and sang …can’t find a better man! at the top of my lungs while I drove into the city to hit CBGB’s. I smoked skinny little Capri cigarettes when I drank because those weren’t like smoking a real cigarrette…therefore, by technicality, I was not a smoker. I loved Eddie Vedder and imagined that, in a perfect world, we’d meet and get married and I’d be his cool wife who wore tight little black dresses and lovingly mopped the sweat from his forehead after particularly grueling sets.
I wore that dress with cowboy boots and black high heels and drank shots out of test tubes. I might have worn it while dancing on the bar at a place called Roxeanne’s with my best friends, Debbie and Corinne. I probably puked on it. Either way, my ass hadn’t fallen yet and my boobs were still perky. My hair was long and cut like Brenda Walsh’s and I exuded a major Don’t-Even-Bother-Talking-To-Me-Fella kind of vibe.
I was dork.
Last night, Dave and I were driving home from our date night when Guns n’ Roses came on the radio. There we were, two cool, aging hotties hurtling down I-95 with Paradise City and Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door blaring from the Saab’s speakers. Momentarily, we felt cool. The songs of our youth filled my ears and made me young again. I mean really young. I felt good and happy and…then the stupid DJ went and called those songs classics. CLASSICS, I say!
My dress is vintage and my music is classic. Bitch is gettin’ old…