In perimenopause I'm having a second adolescence. Squee! Like, gnarly! Like, wicked pissah! I'm seriously you guys so excited to be having a second adolescence. Heart-shaped dot on the i with marker ink that dries puffy and stawberry-scented! OMG! Strawberry!
I got this set of Japanese pens yesterday! (I really did. ) OMG! Souffle!
I was at my best, most confident quirky hardcore lady-type when I was 14ish and wore board shorts, and didn't shave my legs, because: Heads Together Bookstore, and had rushing crushes on people for whom I illustrated notes of love with big puffy letters who had names like Spaz, Stephan (pronounced Germanly Schtay-fawn) and R--, and the 17 year old guy on the bus who had a pet rat, and dissipated just as fast.
But the ride! The ride on the tide of my own hormones! No other drug in the world compares. I think I once skipped skipped! to R-- 's house.
Now of course, my hormones are ebbing. They're seeping out to reveal windswept dry beach, a wrack line littered with fishing line and empty soda bottles. I'm not so much of a skipper. I turn over rocks. I examine the situation from many angles.
So I'm letting myself do what I want. That is the whole of the law.
Do what thou will applies especially to music, the very symbol and soundtrack of love in the early '80s. Music was everything. I listened to B94 FM. It was Pittsburgh's pop station. It's logo was a bee wearing sunglasses, in a cool way.
Though I have tried on other tastes to be pleasing mostly to men with late-day scruff -- classical, grunge, Latin jazz, and I have a small thing for Metallica's song Orion, and Rage Against The Machine, punk -- but ultimately I am simple cotton-candy (or very difficult cotton-candy; everyone over the age of X knows "it's easy to be heavy, hard to be light.")
I just want to dance like Snoopy and wave my arms around the purpose of music is to make 'ya smile. Just keep truckin'.
I am rapidly becoming some sort of Wise Wymmin Herbarium of Dried Medicinal Leaves while my son is blooming, yet we are overlapping in our musical tastes. We're passing the torch of bubblegum pop back and forth. Like my head is home to the bunny that lays Cadbury creme eggs,
we've been falling all over ourselves for MIKA. (Above, the video.) LURV.
My son and I sing loudly, "Sucking too hard on your lollipop, love's gonna get you down." In my 30s I would have gone into a painfully extended exegesis over the lyrics. But now? It's skippy is a complete thought. That is the whole of the law. Play it again.