She was tall, nearly 6 foot, and her long strong legs ended in tartan Doc Marten boots. Her outfit was various shades and textures of black: cotton cut-off shorts, ripped lace tights, fishnet top over a lycra bikini halter neck, and finished with a belt made from an old horse bridle, including the rusty snaffle bit.
Her hair was shaved at the sides, but long and part-dreaded down her back; the delicate sequinned handbag was the perfect match to multiple silver earrings and nose hoop.
A friend told me her name was Lizzie, and that she played keyboards in a local punk band.
That could have been me.
All right, 25 years ago, yes, but still- I could have lived that life. Just a slightly shorter-statued version perhaps.
I was mesmerised, watching her stomp round the art opening in those big boots; suddenly my own 60’s outfit with 70’s leather boots seemed tame. I wanted to be in a band, sneering at normal dress conventions. I had complete ‘punk lifestyle envy’, and felt the urge to be living in an anarchistic share house, hassling for gigs, notoriety, hand rolled cigarettes, skull accessories, and a sense of complete freedom, sleeping with whoever I wanted, and laughing at expectations like jobs, marriage, or even children!
No less than 4 people approached me during the evening, to compliment my vintage dress, with one woman delighting in its similarity to seersucker tablecloths, including stains; however the praise fell on deaf ears.
Was it really too late for me to embody that alternative careless, carefree, charismatic persona?
Then I remembered I hadn’t yet transferred over the latest mortgage payment, that my 18-yr old son would soon be home clamouring for dinner, and that this weekend was probably my last chance to sand and oil the front deck before it got too mouldy.
What’s one of your ‘un-lived’ lives? What would you wear, and how would you spend your time?
In gratitude for flights of fancy, and Doc Marten boots, G xO