Salve, discipuli, and welcome to May – quite possibly the LONGEST month of the year (Memorial Day seems to take for-freaking-ever to get here, yes?). As some of you may know, I often search for blogging inspiration in the daily, the ridiculous, and the mundane… if not, I will end up divulging some awkward personal history, and usually a little something about my live-in torero. Luckily, my dearest friend Regina Phelange has rescued him from almost certain embarrassment this month. And yes, if you are a loyal reader (all fourteen of you), then you’ll recognize Regina from my PSA regarding her hugburglaring episode. Oui? Wonderful! Let’s continue…
In between moments of brilliance and high productivity, Reggie (she prefers nicknames) and I like to let loose by discussing the latest news and judging the poor fashion habits of the rich and famous (I present to you Exhibit A – I’d say the B*tch stole his look.)
We are downright hilarious if I do say so myself and spot-on when determining who Bravo will demonize with each new season of Housewives. And today’s topic was no different. Reggie laid the mother of all turds on me and prefaced it with “Are you ready to feel old?” (Note: If you’re not, or if you’re under 21, just stop reading now, and I’ll catch you next month.) Naturally, my reply was “Always”. Hindsight is always 20:20, and I was clearly not ready for this – “Baby Got Back” can legally purchase a forty. Say what!?! Oh. My. God. Becky. Yes, kittens – Sir-Mix-A-Lot’s party anthem is twenty-one. Start. Feeling. Old.
As I let this sink in, I thought back to where I was 21 years ago – fifth grade, gangly, chipmunk teeth, with a Blossom-like fashion sense and the social graces of a pygmy goat (FYI, those earrings were made from dice. Eat your heart out, Gaga.)
I certainly had no earthly idea that summer’s chart-topper professed loving juicy doubles. I vividly remember dancing in my bathroom as I brushed my teeth in the mornings and making up gymnastic-y floor routines with friends to this fantastically inappropriate song (it was the ’92 Barcelona Olympics, after all). All with a boombox. And a mixed tape that also housed hits by Whitney, Color me Badd and The Heights (bonus points if you remember the show).
Have 21 years really passed since that blissful ignorance of pre-adolescence? After all, I certainly didn’t realize what his anaconda really didn’t want (I’ll save you the time; he’s not talking about a real snake or actual hamburgers.) To my siblings, I feel an apology is in order – I’m sure I threatened wrangled you into some type of innocent dance routine at some point to this entirely awesome inappropriate song, and for that, I am sorry.
While I was having my pre-teen flashback (still at work, by the way), I made a startling revelation. Sir-Mix-A-Lot’s genius and I were like Kevin Arnold and Winnie Cooper, forever separating and coming back together. Sure, I moved on after summer ’92 – Boyz II Men and Shai were clearly on the horizon, and then I got all Latin-crazy in high school, but Baby Got Back was always there for me, waiting in the wings like some kind of creeper – girls’ night out, finals-weeks dance party breaks (solo and group), Tuesdays, weddings, the mitzvahs, both bah and bat. Like Winnie leaving for Europe and coming home years later to Kevin at the airport (with a wife and baby), Baby Got Back will always be there for me, albeit awkwardly the older I get. Few songs have had the staying power and international appeal in karaoke bars and seedy pubs, and quite frankly any song that can be rapped as a lullaby will always be acceptable (for future offspring) in my book.
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I can’t wait to do this when I have a kid…
So here’s to twenty-one years of paving the way for Bootylicious Apple Bottom jeans and the boots with the furrrr, Sir-Mix-A-Lot. You’re a visionary, so just keep doing you. And for what it’s worth, your one hit wonder will forever be my Fred Savage…
Thank God I didn’t divulge any awkward personal history this month…
onedayisoneday 