Friday, February 4, 2011

These Boots Are Made For Slidin'

The Oscars are making me nostalgic, in the same weird way that hearing Lady Gaga makes me both happy, and oddly sad. The year before Jenny was born I saw 15 of the Oscar nominated movies. I have seen exactly two of this year’s contenders, and one shouldn’t really count because it’s Toy Story 3, and I saw it because The Ta rented it for Jelly on Pay-Per-View on a beach trip. And also, because I have seen it a approximately one trazillion times since. Yes, I still cry every single time when Big Baby says, ‘Mama’.

If I open my dresser drawers, there are folds of black yoga pants, in varying state of presentability, the uniform of the work-from-home mom. But if I open my closet, hidden beneath linty hooded sweatshirts and fading long-sleeved tees, are row upon row of suede loafers in browns and navys, saucy black sharp-heeled boots with narrow toes, pink patent leather slip-ons, fur-lined clogs, shoes for going out or staying in or dancing or dining, but definitely not for catching a small child as she tumbles down a slide in a slightly damp backyard. The appropriate footwear for that are the dirty Skechers by the back door, worn almost daily for the past year. I’ve already got the next pair lined up, worn once a week or so for the past few months to start breaking them in. Work horse shoes. The others up in my closet, forlorn and slightly dusty, taunt me every time I push past them for something unstylish and more forgiving to mud and boogers.

‘Bad Romance’ comes on the radio station I listen to only slightly less often than that Pink song, ‘Raise Your Glass’, which I liked at first because it includes the lyrics ‘what’s the dealio?’, which I say with embarrassing frequency to the annoyance of all my friends. Then I heard it 847,345 more times and it lost a significant chunk of appeal. Anyhow, I still find myself tapping my hands, feet, eyelashes, whatever is handy, to ‘Bad Romance’, because it is a party starter and has a great hook and Gaga is a genius no matter how crazy she is, and she makes me want to do some booty-shaking. But it also reminds me of the person I use to be, and makes me wonder what Loud thinks of her, and how fun it would be to have that song blasting while putting on ridiculous amounts of sparkly eye makeup with a glass of something rum-heavy, disgustingly sweet and achingly cold, sloshing precariously on the edge of a too-small sink. I want to force various unwieldy body parts into too-tight age-inappropriate spandex and polyester and anything else that doesn’t breathe or flatter, with fasteners I can’t reach but can’t close anyhow so it doesn’t really matter. I want a Friday night to be open with possibilities of Who Will Be There and What Will Happen rather than What’s on Tivo or Should I Make Popcorn.

I could do those things. I have lots of very kind friends who would babysit. They would think it’s hilarious. They would love nothing more than to see me shimmy into Spanx and tart myself up. I even know other single gals who would brave a local dance floor, toss down some overpriced watered-down cocktails, not give a shit that we’re cougars and damn proud of it. But I can tell you how that story ends.

In the old days, it would end with me hilariously drunk. Once in a while, me and my roommate would drag some poor hapless boys back to our crappy apartment, or worse yet, hop in their car and go to their place. Nine times out of ten he’d end up talking about his girlfriend, or worse yet, wife. On some occasions there would be blacking out. Twice there were attempted rape situations. Most of the time there was barfing. There was almost always sadness at some point.

I will stay home with Jelly tonight, and will watch The Soup, and will maybe make some popcorn. At no point will I barf, or have to sit on someone else’s pee on a grody bar toilet seat. I won’t be told how cute I am except maybe by Jellybean, but at least I know it will be sincere. I will be comfortable, and when it gets close to 1am I won’t start to get a panicky feeling because everyone is hooking up and once again I’m alone, because I will be blissfully asleep, and tomorrow morning I won't wake up filled with acid and regrets. My old life was fun a lot of the time, but when I feel boring and old and sad and nostalgic, I need to remind myself that underneath all that sparkle and loud music was a cute pair of shoes on a very lonely person. Now I'm all dirty shoes and happiness.


Stephanie said...

bah-ha-ha... How apropos was my After 12 Failblog status last night, hunh?

Dude. I don't miss the alcohol poisoning (because those definitely weren't hangovers). I don't miss the random attempts to soothe my self esteem with the Sean Brian's and the Brian Sean's (gawd, what WAS that guys name).

I don't miss any of it-- but I don't regret it either. Probably because I never walked away with a nasty STD or an unplanned pregnancy, but still.

Unlike some people I know, I don't feel like I missed out on anything. Well, except for being a high-priced call girl in DC, but I can still do that someday.

MommieV said...

There was almost always sadness at some point.

Yea that.