When I was sixteen ( I know, it sounds like a song), I had this friend named Hobbes. Well her name wasn't actually Hobbes, it was Christina, and actually she is still my friend, she has a little baby boy whom she loves loves loves, and lives in Southern California, not far from where we grew up.
Anyhow, this is about being sixteen, not about now. Hobbes was always a little more adventuresome than I was, she had crazy friends, not really crazy, just people on the periphery of life. Like almost groupies to bands struggling for record deals, guys that did tattoos out of their garages, girls that moved out of their parent's homes in the middle of the night, you know, almost like carnival folk. And then there was me. An overweight, 30-ish looking highschool student destined for college, listening to broadway cast recordings, perfectly fine parents, relatively stable homelife, never drinking or drug doing. And Hobbes and I were friends. I think because we were thrown together at some point by an old classmate of mine, and her step cousin, and well, see were just perfect for each other. She was the quiet girl who did wild things, and I was the loud mouth who did quiet things.
Let me set the scene, and the era. It is 1989, it is winter in LA. It is about 65, perfect blue skies when we begin our drive. Hobbes is wearing acid wash cutoff shorts and a black t-shirt of the band we are going to see, her hair is puffed up as much as fine Danish hair can be, the white blond complementing her frosted pink lipstick and purple eyeliner. I am sure there were black rubber bracelets all up her arm, and some kind of silver jewelry hanging out of her ears. I, however, am wearing the coolest shirt I could find, a big multicolored camp shirt with a blue tank top underneath and a pair of fuschia stirrup pants with my favorite black boots. My hair was big, as big as it has ever been, aqua net for days, to add to the frosted pink lipstick, hot pink eyeshadow and blue mascara. We had listened to the top forty countdown on Pirate radio, mixed in with some Motley Crue and some Van Halen (the Sammy Hagar years) and we were ready to go. And we thought we looked awesome, and we were ready to descend onto LA. Like virgins to the slaughter.
She was friends with the struggling LA band at the time, and she wanted to go up to see a show of theirs in Hollywood. Our plan was to go up to Melrose (because she said that was the coolest area in town) and do some window shopping, and then head over to see if we could get into their "all ages" show at the Troubador-- and still make it home before my 11:30 curfew. Now, my curfew wasn't really so, because my parents would pass out on the couch pretty much by 10pm every night of the week, but I didn't ever want to disappoint, especially since they knew we were headed up to LA for the evening, this may actually be the night that they would stay up and sober, and I would get busted trying to get in the door at 2am.
We get to Melrose somewhere around 7:30, including traffic and getting lost, and a burrito from Del Taco-- and we park. We walk into a shop-- looking back on it, it was the most exciting shop I had ever been in.
The shop. Ah, the shop. The women behind the counter had piercings not only in their ears, but in their noses and ON THEIR FACES. As Hobbes pawed the clothes and tried on shoes, I realized I was out of my element. I mean this shop was SEX. Pure unadulterated SEX, sexy sexy sex in the biggest way, and I was 3 months out of teaching Sunday school to Kindergarteners. This was evil, and I shouldn't be there at all. And I wasn't cool at all, I looked like a boozy 30 year old out for a night out. I was sixteen, for chrissakes, never even been kissed!
Hobbes tried on three pairs of black boots, all way too expensive, as I looked at the hosiery. I couldn't image what anyone would need with crotch-lessunderwear, fishnets with seams, edible panties, or thigh high white stockings with bows. I knew that I was definitely going to have to go to Church after this visit, because my mind was opening bit by bit, and it wasn't pretty.
This was the point that I realized I wasn't going to fit in everywhere, no matter how hard I tried. This just wasn't me. I was a good girl, a good student, junior class president, in all the school plays, volunteering my time at the Red Cross, and going to Church on Sundays. I was waiting for my first boyfriend to kiss me opened mouthed without asking. I was not ready for this reality where sex was something to be prepared for, dressed up for, and there was no way I could afford to have sex if I had to buy any of this stuff to make it happen.
That night was uneventful. I think we walked up and down the Strip after not being able to get into the all ages club. We looked at tatoos, we split a budweiser that one of the guys in the band snuck out for us, smoking cigarettes at the stage door, waiting for Spaz of Jazz or whatever his name was to come out. We made it home in time, Hobbes slept over, and in the morning my mom made French Toast with blueberry syrup. And I forgot all about the shop.
Years later, I bought my first pair of fishnets. Okay, so I didn't go into a store and buy them, and I had just turned 30, but nonetheless, I pranced around my apartment in the sexiest sexy thing I could dig up to go with the fishnets. I realized then that I didn't miss out on much in high school, that as much as I wanted to, fitting in will never be my style. However, fishnets are now part of who I am. Not bad for a Big Girl.
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