So we spent two hours this evening listening to 90s music and looking up random trivia from our adolescence online.
I love that my kid knows who Nirvana is, I’m just sayin’.
I was the chick that wore boy jeans with tiny tank tops, clunky Doc Martens, and had random shades of hair. And lengths.
I was also the chick that was going to school in a very small, very conservative town in eastern New Mexico, and graduated into a very small, very conservative college town in western Texas.
Out of place, much?
Whatever. The world has changed enough that Sharkman can roll into school in a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt over a thermal, and people just assume that his parents are… well.. me.
I’m one short step away from buying him a pair of Chucks. And maybe a pair of Docs, if I can find them on clearance.
The only downer to all of this is that the hipsters have coopted the return of the 90s.
Let me just state for the record that the 90s did not include skinny jeans.
Skinny jeans are evidence of evil. Full stop.
I was the angry chick music girl – I saw Melissa Etheridge in concert in 1996. Before I knew I was gay. Hell, before I knew she was gay. Although that concert was where I learned that rainbow flags were a gay pride thing, and that butch lesbians were, um, awesome.
Actually, that concert may have been my root. Don’t tell my old roommate, okay? Because I went with her. And I may actually have been the only dyke in existence to not have had a crush on my roomie.
Anyway, that was my first experience with dyke live-in-the-flesh, and I remember a lot less about the concert than I do the crowd around me.
Keep in mind, it was 1996; this was all I knew of dyke:
I was a fan.
So, oddly enough, was my mother. She’s the one who rented the movie.
Wonder if she’d do it over again? Hehehe.
Figuring out who I was and what I liked and what I wanted was fun. I loved being in college, and being able to go where I wanted and spend my own damn money and run around with extra rings in my ears and my midriff showing…
The 9os were good to me.
I want to bring them back. I want to wear boyfriend jeans and tight tank tops and clunky shoes and crazy hair and not give a flying fuck.
I wish I wasn’t getting too old for this shit.
What about you? Where were you? What did you want? Where did you think you were going, and did you get there?
Would you go back, if you could?