Party Like It's 1989

Today is my friend Mary's (I was totally going to use a pseudonym for her, but c'mon--is that really necessary?) birthday, and last night, a group of eleven 30-something women went out for her birthday.

It turned out to be a most memorable evening, especially considering that several weeks ago, Mary declared that what she wanted more than anything for her 35th birthday was for all of us to dress up in our 80s prom attire and hit the local dance floors. And because Mary is fun and beautiful and sweet and an all-around wonderful girl, we agreed, that yes, we would participate in the Prom-o-Rama and don our tea-length prom dresses.

We climbed into our attics, drove hours to our parents' homes to explore forgotten closets, and hit every thrift store within a 50-mile radius seeking the perfect Prom-o-Rama ensembles. We borrowed, bought and stole ($8 for my fuchsia taffeta frock was a steal, in my book) dresses, accessories, and many cans of Rave hairspray.

Yesterday afternoon, we gathered at Mary's house to begin our flashback transformations. We couldn't resist adding a few current touches to the outfits, and many of us ended up rocking a punk-glam 80s style--something that we didn't have the courage to try in high school. I channeled the style of a particular girl from my high school--a girl who, despite her sweet temperament, always intimidated the hell out of me because she was so alternative and edgy and well, cool.

And then, we loaded up into vehicles and headed to one of the town's most popular night spots, where we danced our asses off to every 80s and not-so-80s tune that the band played. Some of the people who saw us got it. Many did not. We didn't care either way.

Apologies to Isabel for my use of the Black Bar™.

BTW, The hair stylist post is still in draft purgatory, and I suspect that it's a story that would make most of you go, "Well, duh. You get what you pay for, sister." I'm certain that you're on pins and needles waiting for that one, so I'll get to it soon.