I Used to Be Hip--What Happened?

Once upon a time, I was a pretty hip girl. It doesn't seem as if it was all that long ago, either. Since I was always an A student who loved school and a "good girl" who didn't smoke or drink or get high or sleep around, I relied, albeit unconsciously, on a little bit of hipness--an independent mind, a love of all kinds of music and literature, an inner-city background, the ability to get along with and appreciate people of all races and cultures, an attraction to vagabonds and musicians--to keep me from being a total nerd. Had it not been for these qualities, I surely would have been hanging out with the kids who got beaten up by the "cool" kids.

But I never followed the herd, ever--except in the case of religion. I was born into Catholicism, a fancy word for brainwashing, and for most of my childhood and young adulthood, I feared the wrath of God for stupid things like my doubting that Adam and Eve were real people and that God actually made woman from Adam's rib. It took thirty years before I felt confident in the idea that God has more important things to tend to than punishing young girls for doubting the validity of ancient fairytales. But I digress.

Pastels and Sunny Florida: two things that
go against my very core. I was led astray.

As a teenager, I loved makeup and clothes, like most teen girls, but if I had to choose between buying a new blouse or a new album, the album would win every time. I wasn't terribly into trends, except for a while in the early 80s when, at age 19 or 20, I got sucked into Danskins, pastels, leg-warmers, ripped t-shirts, and a Sheena Easton haircut. I even had the "Jane Fonda Workout," and actually went to aerobics classes (two or three times--I hated it; I only went to look at the guys working out) at Socitey Hill Fitness wearing tights and a Danskin, and a headband, just like Olivia Newton John in her "Physical" video. In the same period, I also did the complete opposite, and tried to go punk, buying my entire wardrobe of leopard-print t-shirts, spiked bracelets, and leather and spandex shirts with zig-zag zippers from Zipperhead on South Street in Philly. I saw no point--and had no need--for a bra until I was in my early 20s (wow--those were the days), but that's as wild as I got.

It wasn't long before I settled back into the comfort zone I'd established at 14 or 15--wearing my brother's ripped army shirts and patchy jeans and suede moccasins, not because they were especially cool, and certainly not because they looked good (they didn't--in my Mother's words, they were "disgraceful;" I looked like a "rag-picker," she said, and periodically would try to throw away one of my tattered shirts or threadbare jeans, only for me to retrieve it from the bottom of the garbage bag, wash it, and wear it the next day) but because they were comfortable and worn--and me. These were the days when my Mother would look at me and slowly shake her head, saying nothing at all. Deep down, though, I know she was glad that I wasn't a prissy little "girly girl." And so was I.


What I want to know is, when did I become middle-aged? It wasn't so long ago that I lived out of an overnight bag--my leather duffel bag always in the trunk of my car, packed and ready to go anywhere at a moment's notice. I'd drive 200 miles at the drop of a hat, go anywhere without a map, without a plan, with no money to speak of, just because I felt like it. It wasn't so long ago that Dana and I would hop in the car, drinking extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffees at midnight, and drive from Philly to New York on a whim on a Sunday night, then get up for work at 7:00 bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. We rented cars and drove through the Deep South, through the Bayous of Louisiana and the Mississippi Delta, sat out on the hood of our car in the middle of the night, in the middle of an empty highway in Helena, Arkansas, looking at the stars, when our friends were doing all-inclusives in Bermuda and the Bahamas and getting mani/pedi combos at the hotel spa. They thought we were nuts; we thought they were missing out.

Now here I am, in bed at 9:00 pm, under the comforter and wearing a flannel nightshirt and heated fleece aromatherapeutic booties, excited, not because I just met Dylan and he was nice to me, but because I actually have at least nine hours of sleep to look forward to, because it's raining and I don't have any commitments this weekend, because I can watch the "Nancy Grace" reruns that I missed during the week and because they put new "Sopranos" episodes on HBO on Demand. I'm not complaining. I mean, I supposed I could do some of that other stuff if I really wanted to. I guess I just don't. I guess I'm content writing and being sort of...domestic. Well, sort of.

What happened?