Driving
home last week after spending a relaxing hour in the pool and hot tub, I flipped
on the radio to hear Elton John's I Guess That’s Why They Call It the
Blues. The trip back to 1983 was so fast, I got whiplash from the way
back machine.
Suddenly,
I was twenty years old, dressed to the nines at the Christmas party for Central
Blood Bank where I worked for four years while getting my undergraduate degree
at Duquesne University. Six months of that was full-time because I prioritized
partying over studying sophomore year and failed a class.
When
I didn't qualify for one of my student loans because I was short three credits,
I took a semester off and registered for two classes at the community college. I
also began to work full-time at the blood bank. In addition to phoning potential
donors to schedule appointments, I offered administrative support to the
corporate recruiters.
During
that time, I developed a serious crush on a co-worker named John. In his early
thirties, he wasn't the handsomest man. But he was kind and intelligent and
always treated me with respect. Even though I was back to part-time and rarely
saw him, I was still obsessed with getting him to notice me as more than a
coworker. When the date for the Christmas party was announced, I got so excited
about spending time around him, my best friend Karen insisted I get a new
dress.
Shopping
is not something I do. For a couple of reasons. First, I’m a purchaser not a
shopper. I once got a parking ticket outside the Sears at a mall in New Jersey
because I double parked to buy a TV. And second, as someone who has always had a
larger body, shopping - especially in the 80s before fat people started to
demand their sizes be available in stores and not just in catalogues - was
torture.
But
for this occasion, I went along with the program. We rented a car and drove to
the suburbs so that we could each buy something new. After Karen found something
at The Limited, we ended up at Lane Bryant. The selection was small, but I found
a pink and black striped satin dress with a black Peter Pan collar, short
bouffant sleeves, and a sash belt. I fell in love with it.
My
curly hair was as fashionable as my larger body, so I kept it cut short to keep
the coils controlled. Except for the swoop. This was the era of Depeche Mode and
Duran Duran, where the lead singers all had closely cropped hair with a long
swoosh draped over the top of their foreheads. The only difference between my
hair and theirs was that mine was frosted.
Karen
and I smoked a joint and drank a glass of Champagne as we applied eyeshadow and
lipstick and slipped into our new dresses. The party was at the Hyatt, across
the street from our apartment at the bottom of campus. The fresh air from the
walk sobered us up just enough so we were bright-eyed but still mellow when we
arrived.
Almost
a hundred employees milled about the ballroom and a DJ was stationed on a
platform at the front of the room. A few people jerked and grooved on the dance
floor to tunes like “Flashdance” and “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” The drinks
were flowing at an open bar and a generous buffet of hors d'oeuvres lined one
wall.
I
had already learned by this tender age not to mix liquor. “Stick with what you
start with,” my dad used to say. So, I ordered a glass of Champagne and let the
bubbles tickle my nose while we mingled and laughed with people we knew but
didn’t get to see all the time.
I
noticed John standing with a group of people on the other side of the room. His
six-foot-two frame made him difficult to miss. The DJ kicked up the music and
more people hit the dance floor. I stood frozen at the edge despite Karen’s
attempts to include me, terrified he would ask me to dance and even more scared
he wouldn’t. My nerves made me sweat, and I dabbed my upper lip and forehead
with a cocktail napkin as inconspicuously as possible.
Karen
and I kept downing flutes of champagne and while she was actually having a good
time, I only pretended. I smiled and nodded through conversations with my boss
and fellow donor recruiters, but my mind was solely occupied with trying to
figure out an unobtrusive way to talk to John. That and obsessing about whether
or not we would dance.
Around
ten, the DJ put on I Guess That's Why They Call It The
Blues. It wasn't necessarily a slow song, but it certainly wasn't
“Hungry Like the Wolf.”
I
stood near the dance floor, nursing my drink, when I John walked on to it with
one of the women he worked with. I watched them as Elton belted each line,
moving closer together, dancing slower until they barely moved. Oh my God, was
he going to kiss her? As it came to an end, I hightailed it out the ballroom
door and sought refuge in the lady’s room.
Sitting
in the stall I was a blubbering mess, staring at tiny black and white squares of
tile through watery eyes, mourning a romance that didn't even exist. My mind
conjured all kinds of reasons why he would choose her over me and I wallowed in
the kind of self-pity that only comes from unrequited love. Or at least serious
like.
Karen
came looking for me, and as is required in the manual for best friends, helped
me wash the streaks of mascara from my cheeks and gave me a pep talk about how
he wasn't worthy of me. She forced me back into the ballroom where we proceeded
to drink several more glasses of Champagne before heading home for the evening.