Week 8 prompt: "Design a t-shirt. What would it look like and say?" asked our mentor, mining for story gold.
Mine, it turns out, has already been designed. Three stripes. Blue on top, yellow in the middle, red below. C’mon. You know the one. Say it with me. The Police: Synchronicity Tour, 1983. July 23, 1983 in my case. Comiskey Park, Chicago, Illinois.
It was the zenith of my high school experience. I was a junior. I had nice, if not semi-unhinged, friends. I had inconceivably big hair.
We got dropped off by our relieved, unsuspecting parents at 9a – “See you at midnight!” Whitney Drury's mom called out, parade-waving.
“Excellent!” we responded, stolen alcohol from the adult’s cabinets buried in our purses to be consumed by 9:30a before entering the park.
What WERE we thinking? We were thinking we were on top of the world (despite our unfortunate, just-above-the-knee acid wash cut off shorts, sequins headbands and aforementioned bad hair). We were thinking we could dance inappropriately with boys we would know for up to 14 hours. Mitzvah.
The park was so packed that we moved, shoulder-to-shoulder as if underwater, soothed, held. We’d found our people. We’d endured the trials and tribulations of high school, made mistakes, large and small … but we were HERE.
Ensconced. Embraced. Loved. By Sting.
His current ran through us, electrified us -- a coaxial cable from his voice to our starved, adolescent souls. He knew we knew ALL the lyrics and were feeling ALL the FEELs.
We were that delusional. And delirious. Deliriously happy.
This was before we may or may not have dabbled with doing mushrooms in college for live shows.
Before our fantasy bubbles burst and we lined up jobs, husbands, mortgages, adaptive coping strategies. Before we had --- then curated and very likely helicopter/snowplowed over and under-parented -- our children, only to then have to set them free in this brave new hellscape world.
Yesterday, while running to my favorite Police radio Pandora station, Every Breathe You Take came on. Metronomic music and footfalls marking time. I was doing my monthly 10k in honor of my coworker who died from COVID-19. She was only 43, a mother, wife, friend and public servant who spent the lion’s share of her days and nights serving domestic violence and sexual assault victims. She asked to have the COVID test twice and was denied … she took her last breath in March.
The co-worker who organized the virtual run set it up so we could raise money for the cause, get a medal and a Run Fierce tank top, which, alas, has become my new favorite. I think Sting would be okay with the synchronicity of it all.
Mine, it turns out, has already been designed. Three stripes. Blue on top, yellow in the middle, red below. C’mon. You know the one. Say it with me. The Police: Synchronicity Tour, 1983. July 23, 1983 in my case. Comiskey Park, Chicago, Illinois.
It was the zenith of my high school experience. I was a junior. I had nice, if not semi-unhinged, friends. I had inconceivably big hair.
We got dropped off by our relieved, unsuspecting parents at 9a – “See you at midnight!” Whitney Drury's mom called out, parade-waving.
“Excellent!” we responded, stolen alcohol from the adult’s cabinets buried in our purses to be consumed by 9:30a before entering the park.
What WERE we thinking? We were thinking we were on top of the world (despite our unfortunate, just-above-the-knee acid wash cut off shorts, sequins headbands and aforementioned bad hair). We were thinking we could dance inappropriately with boys we would know for up to 14 hours. Mitzvah.
The park was so packed that we moved, shoulder-to-shoulder as if underwater, soothed, held. We’d found our people. We’d endured the trials and tribulations of high school, made mistakes, large and small … but we were HERE.
Ensconced. Embraced. Loved. By Sting.
His current ran through us, electrified us -- a coaxial cable from his voice to our starved, adolescent souls. He knew we knew ALL the lyrics and were feeling ALL the FEELs.
We were that delusional. And delirious. Deliriously happy.
This was before we may or may not have dabbled with doing mushrooms in college for live shows.
Before our fantasy bubbles burst and we lined up jobs, husbands, mortgages, adaptive coping strategies. Before we had --- then curated and very likely helicopter/snowplowed over and under-parented -- our children, only to then have to set them free in this brave new hellscape world.
Yesterday, while running to my favorite Police radio Pandora station, Every Breathe You Take came on. Metronomic music and footfalls marking time. I was doing my monthly 10k in honor of my coworker who died from COVID-19. She was only 43, a mother, wife, friend and public servant who spent the lion’s share of her days and nights serving domestic violence and sexual assault victims. She asked to have the COVID test twice and was denied … she took her last breath in March.
The co-worker who organized the virtual run set it up so we could raise money for the cause, get a medal and a Run Fierce tank top, which, alas, has become my new favorite. I think Sting would be okay with the synchronicity of it all.
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