Concert Pants

Concert Pants

Here’s the thing, I’ve been a fat ass all my life. There was little hope for me and my squat rotund form. I was banished to the world of stretch pants; sweat shirts, every article of clothing I owned as a pre-teen and teenager were baggy, over-sized to hide the indignity of my bulk. Not exactly the girl who was asked to waltz with a popular boy, any boy for that matter, when ‘Stairway to Heaven’ sounded, the last song of all Junior High dances. I spent a lot of time hugging the gym wall watching the slender bodies of my friends sway to the classic rock anthem, wondering what it felt like to be chosen. I’m still wondering to this day.

Full disclosure, I don’t know how anyone can justify feeding their kid who is a product of divorce with severe abandonment issues, greasy hamburgers, French fries, junk food, and throw ire when you grow pathetically fat and call that parenting? To be rewarded for good grades and jobs well done with food and then berated because of your bulbous size? Talk about your mixed messages. I wanted nice clothes; I wanted to be skinny, to look pretty and put together like my best friends, more than anything in the world, except my emotions confusingly at that tender age, constantly centered on food, my prize, and still, my life-long addiction. It was ten times more humiliating to be a fat kid when you’re Way Cooler Big Brother is a Rock Star with the Most Beautiful Girlfriend on the planet. Inadequacies, then (and now) were (and are) not in short supply.

And, since I wasn’t a popular kid, too apprehensive, too insular because of my outward appearance, I spent a lot of time traveling around the fictional worlds inside of books, under the safeguard of headphones, my friends tightly coiled around cassette tape wheels, singing to me while nestled in my bedroom nook -- pimply, plump, and protected.

It’s 1980-something. My Way Cooler Big Sister comes into my room, snaps open my nook door, which is really just my closet, peers down at me with a big shit eating grin on her face fanning three concert tickets in her slender hand, “We’re going to see Platinum Blonde.”

Technically Platinum Blonde wasn’t my first concert. When I was five, Dad took me and Way Cooler Big Sister to see Charlie Pride, front row center. Legend has it I fell asleep not even halfway through the show. Somewhere between ‘Kiss an Angel Good Morning’ and ‘Crystal Chandeliers’ I fell asleep, passed out cold. Mr. Nickels and Dimes and Love singled me out in front of the sold-out crowd throwing a red rose blush across my Dad’s face. I was none the wiser.

Someone must have convinced Dad to allow me to buy something new to wear to the concert because he offered to take me to the mall and by taking me to the mall he meant dropping me off and then picking me up when I was done. I took complete advantage of the offer since it was a rare occasion I was permitted to buy new clothes. My back-to-school wardrobe each year consisted of a new pair of sweats, a Wind River sweat shirt from Mark’s Work Warehouse, socks, underwear, and one pair of sneakers. A fatty dressed as a cliché.  

Dad dropped me off at the mall by the food court doors. There should be irony in that but it made the most sense because Way Cooler Big Brother’s Most Beautiful Girlfriend on the planet worked at the record store and was going to help me find something when her shift ended. I bought myself an Orange Julius and squeezed into a four top booth near the center playground and watched willful children hang like monkeys from the bars and zoom down the slide and try to climb their way back up.

Most Beautiful Girlfriend came and found me slurping sugary sludge while my head was in the clouds. She wore flowy white linens that gave her an angelic air. Most Beautiful Girlfriend, who very much felt like my Way Way Cooler Big Sister, greeted me with a soft pink smile, and plunked a rolled up poster on the table, “Duran Duran promo poster for you for your museum.”

I’d been eyeing it since the day I bought my very first record from her, as in vinyl record, Chic’s ‘Le Freak’. I literally le freaked out when I saw it, their iconic Rolling Stone cover displayed just above the cash register. I begged her to save it for me if they ever took it down. She delivered and I was ecstatic. Mom would see me coming with it later and roll her eyes while muttering something about more tack holes in the wall under her breath.

Most Beautiful Girlfriend and I set off to browse through the L-shaped mall. I spotted a really cool pair of stylish soft white high-top style sneakers in the shoe store window display. She said I should go in and try them on. I resisted, insisting my ankles were too thick. She eased me inside and asked for a pair in my size. To my delight, my ankles weren’t actually the assholes I thought they were. They fit! Like a glove. I could not stop smiling. That is until we continued on in search of a top and pants. Most Beautiful Girlfriend maintained I would not be wearing stretch pants to my first rock concert. My shoe-buying glee instantly deflated.

We tried a few stores whose sizes were too many too small for me. And then, at the other end of the mall, I felt slightly optimistic. Most Beautiful Girlfriend sent me into the dressing room with arms loaded with things to try on. Nothing in the pile had any stretch in them whatsoever. My fear told me to fake trying them all on because nothing was going to fit. I was too tubby and didn’t deserve to look good for a special occasion. I mean, I had never before so why would it be any different? Most Beautiful Girlfriend caught on to my guise and gently prodded me along with her sunny ways, “There is something in that pile that will look amazing on you, take your time. Don’t rush.”

I tried on things that were miles too tight, too long, one pair I couldn’t even pull up over my knees. I was on the verge of tears, disgraced, reluctantly reaching for another disappointment. Most Beautiful Girlfriend kept asking me to come out of the dressing room and show her what I had on. I flat out refused, fought her at every turn. We were arguing back and forth through the thin swinging doors that were identical to those between our kitchen and entry way at home only these were painted a delicate baby blue and ours at home were bland old brown.  I argued so fervently I didn’t notice that the last pair I tried on traveled up my legs with ease, up around my hips and stomach, zippered and buttoned. I stopped dead in my tracks, in mid-whine. I looked down and there were these way way way cool jeans on my deficient body. They were the perfect length and not baggy in the crotch and not tight against my waist, an exact fit, as if they were made especially for me. I saved them for the last because I liked them the most. I figured if the best ones were going to disappoint, I’d leave that kind of heartbreak for last, blue, black, and faded checkered jeans. They garnered the opposite effect.

My silence stirred her, “Are you alright in there, bud? What’s wrong? Say something.”

I did better. I opened the dressing room door to show her, “They FIT!”

Most Beautiful Girlfriend stood there proud of herself, “What did I tell you? You look like a million bucks.”

I stared at myself in the mirror astounded by the fact that something other than Woolco stretchies actually fit me, “I FEEL like a million bucks!”

She laughed happily, “Now, let’s get you something to wear on top.”

We found a white cotton shirt in the same store. I called it my Simon LeBon shirt because it reminded me of the one he wore in ‘The Reflex’ video. To complete the ensemble, Most Beautiful Girlfriend splurged and bought me shiny stud earrings. It was a banner day, an important one for me, a kid who prior to that one shopping expedition, had never felt comfortable in her skin or any article of clothing aside from pajamas. I felt like a girl, like something other than an insignificant blob.

On the night of the show, I took my time getting ready. I lingered awhile in front of the mirror unrecognizable to myself. Way Cooler Big Sister curled my hair and applied the tiniest hint of make-up. I couldn’t believe that slovenly little me could look the way all the other girls I went to school with did.

Dad picked us up at our house of broken dreams and we collected my Awesome Cousin on the way to the arena, the lucky owner of the third ticket. My heart was pounding when he let us out in the parking lot. I’d been overdosing on Platinum Blonde’s ‘Standing in the Dark’ cassette for what seemed like ever. I knew every word, every note, and every nuance of every song. Dad gave me a bit of spending money to buy a souvenir at the merchandise table. Awesome Cousin and I both opted for the mass produced autographed scarves. I wound mine up as soon as we landed in our seats and tied it around my neck. I never felt cooler. Not a stretch considering I’d never known coolness for one second of my very minuscule life. There I was among throngs of thousands, the horde of fans buzzing in anticipation. I thought I might pee in my concert pants it was so exciting.

The house lights went down and the crowd erupted into a collective roar. The stage deliberately revealed itself in Heavenly rays of white beaming light offset by thick ethereal fog. The band emerged with their tight pants and guitars, strobes flashed through every strand of their big blonde teased locks. It was at that exact moment I felt the love for live music plant itself inside me. It was also the moment I discovered my Way Cooler Big Sister was slightly less unruffled when she shockingly started jumping up and down, screaming in excitement, oblivious to the fact that her hands were wrapped tight around my neck. I pried her fingers off of my windpipe and she laughed with utter abandon. The three of us danced and sang the whole night through. I was a ball of sweat when we hopped back in Dad’s car. He asked how it was and he had to tell us to slow down because we were all talking so fast and all at the same time. Best. Night. Ever.

I wore my concert pants on the first day of school. I wore them with my Simon LeBon shirt and my stylish soft white high-top style sneakers. A boy I developed a crush on over the summer months was already in his usual seat when it arrived at my stop. I climbed on board and he leaned into the aisle and said, “You look cool enough I guess.” Uh, did I ever! I started a new year in a new school with confidence and I owed it all to Most Beautiful Girlfriend for introducing me to myself, for showing me, ME. I may have always struggled with my body and appearance but I at least knew there was something more than being completely invisible.

Awhile later, Way Cooler Big Sister and I went to another concert, Paul Young, in an even bigger arena. I upped my confidence game and wore a skirt. It was a bad idea. We had floor seats fairly close to the front row. When Paul Young strode out on stage the place went bonkers and everyone heaved forward. I was still plump, not to mention short. I got separated momentarily from Way Cooler Big Sister and felt smothered between the strong bodies of concert goers. My hand flew up in the air. Way Cooler Big Sister grabbed it and punched the person whose side my face was painfully pressed into. I think I was in shock. She hauled me out of the crowed. I was missing a shoe and my skirt twisted backwards and up over my arse. She helped me fix my clothes, took my hand, and I limped behind her, half shoe-less. She found us safer seats right at the side of the stage in lower bowl and we geeked out thereafter.

I wore my concert skirt to school shortly after and my friend Sweet Nell told me I had nice legs. I was still a fat ass but I took the compliment. I wish I could take them as easily now.

***

I composed this off-the-cuff creative non-fiction piece in a very short period of time. It delights me because I’ve been unable to find my words for the stories brewing in my head. My memory served me for some of it, embellishment assisted, but there is absolute truth in the narrative, my truth.

I have struggled a lifetime with my relationship with food, feelings of punishing inadequacy, and my body.  For so much of my life, these struggles have prevented me from the simplest experiences to the important and profound; like believing I am worthy of romantic love, my person.

I can say with confidence, putting this on paper was healing. It was fun. I hope it is perceived that way.

In propinquity,

Nic