by Allia Zobel Nolan
You know how people say they wish they had been born in a different era? Like they wish they had been a flapper, or grew up in the age of The Big Bopper and sock hops?
I was born in early 1963 at precisely the right time. I was just the perfect age to experience the 80’s dance clubs. And, boy, did I love dance clubs. That’s where big-haired women and sockless men gathered. That crowd fit me like a glove.
The waistband on these always seemed to cling precariously to my ample hips, while the crotch hovered somewhere just north of my knees like a mama kangaroo’s pouch. Other girls had problems, too. Occasionally, as one of them was walking down the hall, this waistband would suddenly roll down, picking up momentum until it reached her ankles where it would roll down, picking up momentum until it reached her ankles where it trapped and tripped her. Once in a while she’d be joined on the floor by one of her peers who had plummeted off her platform shoes.