Desperately Seeking the 1980s

I miss the 1980s. No, I'm not talking about the neon jelly shoes, scrunchie-wearing, Jem watching, tween version of the 80s. I'm talking the full-on, Bright Lights Big City, Miami Vice version of the Bonfire of the Vanities 1980s. The I-turned-21-in-1985, 80s. And no, I didn't line up in club bathrooms for lines of coke, but I did have to weave my around my snorting friends to get to a stall, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. I don't remember how I managed to pull down my pantyhose for a pee.

And oh, those pantyhose. They were black fishnets that peeked out from a black tulle skirt with enough layers to outfit a whole troupe of ballerinas, and ended in a pair of 4-inch black patent leather stiletto pumps. The kind of pumps Manolo Blahnik now sells for $650 that I purchased at Payless back then for probably $15. At least those came back in style. Come to think of it, they probably never really went out of style. I just lost the ability and feet to wear them.

Topping the fluffy, floating cloud of tulle was a black satin bustier edged in blue sequins. It was my pride and joy. The sexiest and most versatile piece of clothing in my closet. If you’re wondering how satin and sequins are versatile, you’re forgetting that we’re talking about the 1980s. I wore it under my oversized, padded shoulder, black leather jacket and with my bolero hat, with black leggings. (Yes, clearly, eventually I went through a goth phase. More like goth-light. Black lipstick was just too much.) I wore it peeking out of a double-breasted suit jacket to work. Yes, with padded shoulders. I wore it with jeans and short, slouchy boots. Yes, black boots. I wore it with a tulip skirt so tight at the bottom I pretty much hobbled. Not that you could tell. No one takes aggressive strides in 4-inch heels.

In true desperately seeking Madonna style, I accessorized that bustier – and every other outfit – with nearly every piece of chunky, beaded jewelry I owned. Back then, everyone was Iris Apfel, and there was none of this understated, minimalist layering of dainty necklaces that’s all the rage now. *yawn*

And maybe that’s why I’m desperately seeking the 80s. I’m not delusional enough to be seeking my lost youth. Frankly, I can think of few worse things than having to relive my 20s. I like the wisdom that’s come with age. But the expectations that come with age can bite me. I miss the over-the-top outrageousness. I miss slinging my 3-inch wide, hot pink hip belt around my oversized, men’s button-up shirt, and the tight knit skirt underneath. I miss pushing boundaries and asymmetrical haircuts and horrifying and alarming the old people. I miss rejecting the prevailing social norms and making up new ones.

I miss that damn bustier.

The thing about a bustier is that it's actually a lot more comfortable and flattering than it might seem, if it's made and fitted well. I’ve been told the same is true of corsets, though I’ve never tested that assertion. My bustier was made to my measurements by my roommate at the time. The roommate who designed some of the earliest costumes for the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. The roommate who would later go on to design leather kink wear. Fuck, we were cool. And maybe that's it. Maybe I miss being cool.

I’m not old enough to be cool like Iris, and Betty White. And I’m not young enough to be cool like, well, anyone younger than me. 20-somethings, and mom-somethings all have their cool cliques. I’m in that oft-mentioned and oft-ignored invisible stage of life, with grown-up kids, complacent peers, and nowhere near retirement, and I think I’m a little pissed about it. Pissed enough, actually, to find someone to make me a black satin, blue sequin edged bustier and to wear it loudly and proudly. I think it’s time to revel again in raising a few eyebrows. Maybe that’s what I actually miss.