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Friday, October 5, 2012

dancin' in the disco, bumper to bumper

It is a truth universally known that the first thing a toddler will do on entering his parent’s bedroom is drink whatever water is left in the glass beside the bed. It may have been there a week or a month, but he will drink those dregs with the thirst and gusto of someone who has'nt consumed anything in a long time. (Or, someone who has drunk an awful lot the night before.)

Anyway, it’s what my own toddler was doing while I counted the holes in the belt I was trying on. I’m currently using it on hole number four, but after looking carefully, I could see the hole I had made in it while I was in college, when even hole number one was too big for me. I was puzzled actually, because I’m thinner now than I was then. 

I was a hearty eater. Student dinners were spaghetti bolognaise or chicken fricassee made with cream, followed by cups of tea and chocolate hob nob biscuits followed by heartburn, followed by, if it was a Wednesday, which was bar extension night, three to four pints of Guinness. So how on earth was I able to wear my belt so tight?

Aha. I remembered. The way I wore my jeans then was very different. As were the jeans in fact.  Levi’s men’s 501’s, button fly, 32 leg, 32 waist. The waist was yanked tight and belted high, thus somewhat explaining the four inch difference in belt size. 

I thought I was the bees knees in those jeans, particularly when they were worn and faded, and partnered with my bottle green Oasis “body” (Don’t ask me to explain what that was), Doc Martens and the ubiquitous Penny’s bulky winter jacket, which would spend the evening rolled into a ball under a bar stool. Remember the days when you looked for your coat at the end of a night out, and finding it was still where you left it was a pleasant surprise? (Remember how careful the leather jacket owners were?)

Ahh, those were the days. Rimmel coverstick on my chin (Nowhere else, just the chin. Why blend? No one else did. I think I actually liked the look of a white chin.), haired moussed and diffused with a borrowed hairdryer and heart full of song: 

I think I was most often found punching my fist to “Give me HOPE Joanna!” or, very appropriately bopping along to “Dancing in the disco bumper to bumper, wait a minute, where’s me jumper?”

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