Driving home last week after spending a relaxing hour in the pool and hot tub, I flipped on the radio to hear Elton John's I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues. The trip back to 1983 was so fast, I got whiplash from the way back machine.
Suddenly, I was twenty years old, dressed to the nines at the Christmas party for Central Blood Bank where I worked for four years while getting my undergraduate degree at Duquesne University. Six months of that was full-time because I prioritized partying over studying sophomore year and failed a class.
When I didn't qualify for one of my student loans because I was short three credits, I took a semester off and registered for two classes at the community college. I also began to work full-time at the blood bank. In addition to phoning potential donors to schedule appointments, I offered administrative support to the corporate recruiters.
During that time, I developed a serious crush on a co-worker named John. In his early thirties, he wasn't the handsomest man. But he was kind and intelligent and always treated me with respect. Even though I was back to part-time and rarely saw him, I was still obsessed with getting him to notice me as more than a coworker. When the date for the Christmas party was announced, I got so excited about spending time around him, my best friend Karen insisted I get a new dress.
Shopping is not something I do. For a couple of reasons. First, I’m a purchaser not a shopper. I once got a parking ticket outside the Sears at a mall in New Jersey because I double parked to buy a TV. And second, as someone who has always had a larger body, shopping - especially in the 80s before fat people started to demand their sizes be available in stores and not just in catalogues - was torture.
But for this occasion, I went along with the program. We rented a car and drove to the suburbs so that we could each buy something new. After Karen found something at The Limited, we ended up at Lane Bryant. The selection was small, but I found a pink and black striped satin dress with a black Peter Pan collar, short bouffant sleeves, and a sash belt. I fell in love with it.
My curly hair was as fashionable as my larger body, so I kept it cut short to keep the coils controlled. Except for the swoop. This was the era of Depeche Mode and Duran Duran, where the lead singers all had closely cropped hair with a long swoosh draped over the top of their foreheads. The only difference between my hair and theirs was that mine was frosted.
Karen and I smoked a joint and drank a glass of Champagne as we applied eyeshadow and lipstick and slipped into our new dresses. The party was at the Hyatt, across the street from our apartment at the bottom of campus. The fresh air from the walk sobered us up just enough so we were bright-eyed but still mellow when we arrived.
Almost a hundred employees milled about the ballroom and a DJ was stationed on a platform at the front of the room. A few people jerked and grooved on the dance floor to tunes like “Flashdance” and “Sweet Dreams are Made of This.” The drinks were flowing at an open bar and a generous buffet of hors d'oeuvres lined one wall.
I had already learned by this tender age not to mix liquor. “Stick with what you start with,” my dad used to say. So, I ordered a glass of Champagne and let the bubbles tickle my nose while we mingled and laughed with people we knew but didn’t get to see all the time.
I noticed John standing with a group of people on the other side of the room. His six-foot-two frame made him difficult to miss. The DJ kicked up the music and more people hit the dance floor. I stood frozen at the edge despite Karen’s attempts to include me, terrified he would ask me to dance and even more scared he wouldn’t. My nerves made me sweat, and I dabbed my upper lip and forehead with a cocktail napkin as inconspicuously as possible.
Karen and I kept downing flutes of champagne and while she was actually having a good time, I only pretended. I smiled and nodded through conversations with my boss and fellow donor recruiters, but my mind was solely occupied with trying to figure out an unobtrusive way to talk to John. That and obsessing about whether or not we would dance.
Around ten, the DJ put on I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues. It wasn't necessarily a slow song, but it certainly wasn't “Hungry Like the Wolf.”
I stood near the dance floor, nursing my drink, when I John walked on to it with one of the women he worked with. I watched them as Elton belted each line, moving closer together, dancing slower until they barely moved. Oh my God, was he going to kiss her? As it came to an end, I hightailed it out the ballroom door and sought refuge in the lady’s room.
Sitting in the stall I was a blubbering mess, staring at tiny black and white squares of tile through watery eyes, mourning a romance that didn't even exist. My mind conjured all kinds of reasons why he would choose her over me and I wallowed in the kind of self-pity that only comes from unrequited love. Or at least serious like.
Karen came looking for me, and as is required in the manual for best friends, helped me wash the streaks of mascara from my cheeks and gave me a pep talk about how he wasn't worthy of me. She forced me back into the ballroom where we proceeded to drink several more glasses of Champagne before heading home for the evening.
Our feet sore from standing in heels, we each held our shoes in one hand, and linked arms. She began singing, “I guess that's why they call it the blues” and I joined in, the two of us howling a raucous rendition as we climbed the hill to the back door of our apartment building.
Safe inside, she reminded me again that I was too good for him. But I didn't feel that way. I felt stupid. And ashamed. And alone. Once again, I was the girl coming home from the party or the bar by herself, trapped in a romantic daydream that would never come true.
I don't remember much about John after that night. He worked days and I was back to my regular shift of evenings and Saturdays. But I held onto that dress, refusing to give it away over two different moves until I finally parted with it when I moved to West Palm Beach.
“Time on my hands could be time spent with you,” I sang with Elton as I slowed for a stop light. “Laughing like children, living like lovers, rolling like thunder under the covers, and I guess that’s why they call it the blues.” To my surprise, I began to cry, the brake lights in front of me suddenly underwater.
Intellectually I knew it wasn’t meant to be. It was a silly crush. But the young woman who still lives inside me clung to the devastation of that night, preferring to hold on to the memory as uncomfortable as it was.
As I wrestled with her decision, the song “Changes” by David Bowie began to play. I laughed out loud. Time might change me, but I can't trace time.
In an instant, I let it go.
The hope, the longing, the pain of rejection.
It really was nothing more than residue anyway.
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