Today, more proof that I am indeed old. First, one of the girls on my Attachment Parenting message board posted a "prom picture photo challenge" and I had to go digging through all of the pictures on my hard drive to locate one or two pictures of me in all my 1980's permed glory. I only have those gems on my computer because Husband made a lovely "through the years" slide show montage of our lives apart and together for our wedding rehearsal dinner. Believe me, if I had half a braincell in my head, I would have burned the pictures year ago. I mean, the hair, the make up, the dress. The hair. Yeah, yeah, I know you're dying to see it...go ahead. Laugh. Laugh out loud, internet. You know you want to. It's good stuff. But you know what? If you go back in your own photo albums, you're going to find something just as bad, admit it.
This is my sophomore semi-formal. Yes, that's only "semi" formal to a teenage drama queen. Dig the perm. Dig the rad gloves. And what voltage battery did that dress run on, exactly? It was very, very shiny. At the time, I remember feeling quite glam. Now, it's a bit more circus side-show than fashionista, but the 80's were not the height of good taste and style, now were they?
(My prom pics are off limits as I am posing with my then best bud, and considering I haven't spoken to her in almost half my lifetime, it's probably not cool for me to be splashing her picture all over the internet.)
Then, after that reminder of my former hair-challenged bliss, as I drove to a friend's house this afternoon, a Bon Jovi song came on the radio. I was, in my day, what you might call a bit of a metalhead. Well, a glam-rock metalhead. I couldn't name one Black Sabbath or AC/DC song for you, but ask me about Poison, Skid Row or Bon Jovi and I can tell you, sadly at great lengths, about their albums, their videos (this is back when MTV actually played music videos) and how many times I used entire cans of AquaNet to adequately shelac my hair for their concerts. And about the boys I dated who had long hair and played in bands and shared earrings with me. And, don't tell Mom & Dad, the mini-skirts and questionable tops I shoved into my bags before leaving the house and changed into almost as soon as I got out of the door. Yes, I didn't drink, smoke or do drugs in my teens, but I certainly did dress like a hooker. Well, Madonna was our fashion icon and after wearing a school uniform for 5 days a week, we were all dying to look potentially promiscuous, regardless of how chaste we actually were (and sadly, we were).
So anyway, the song comes on the radio and my first impulse is to turn it up, start shaking my hair and belt out the song full-blast. But one quick peek in my rear view mirror and I see, Ethan is snoozing ever so peacefully in his car seat. Who would have thought fifteen (okay, twenty) years ago that the girl with the B.A.D. perm and the fringe-armed jean jacket and miniskirt would be driving around in her Nissan Murano, a soccer-mom in training, whispering the words to "Runaway" because...shhhh, the baby's sleeping.