never trust a vintage dress...

(Original unedited image via Pintrest)

By now, you’ll know that things are hotting up for my 30^thReunion back home. My google search has progressed to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 minutes.” I have a feeling I’ll still be doing squats and sit-ups on the plane in a frantic attempt to look, well, better. I do feel a certain sense of triumph, however, as I’ve come up with a cunning solution to deal with the aging “smoker’s lines” around my mouth. (I don’t even smoke, which makes me wonder if I’ve spent my life puckering up my lips a lot?) Yesterday I gave it a trial run. I’ll be keeping a stash of orange rind slices that I can wedge underneath my top lip. Works like a charm until you have to speak. 

All kinds of weird feelings and insecurities have popped up with this impending event. Things I normally never really think about. Like what I should wear. What’s the perfect outfit to communicate that I’ve made enough of an effort but I also kind of don’t give two fucks? Most folks go with jeans and a T-shirt but when I wear jeans it feels like I have a straight-jacket on my legs. Considering that my daily outfit is normally smelly gym clothes, appropriate reunion attire has kept me awake at night a bit. Looking at the weather forecast, one thing is for sure: My primary accessory will be my hot water bottle. 

One of my other main concerns is around tiredness. As much as I’m really looking forward to seeing everyone, I kind of also feel tired at the thought. 11pm is a late night for me so the thought of staying up till an unknown late hour is a little like telling me to run on the spot till you stay stop. It reminds me of the first time I went to a rave in London. 

Exotica and her man, Rasta, were already well into the rave scene and it was not their first rodeo, so to speak, with using a little help to stay awake. I, on the other hand, had not been around this particular block yet and had the usual concerns about my partying staying- power. Consequently, I decided to prepare myself.

As it was, the woman we were housekeepers for, needed to get her car from the country to London. I was to drive with Exotica and Rasta, drop off the car, and then head to the rave. Poor Exotica and Rasta were subjected to my constant babble for the hour and a half long drive it took us to get to London. You see, I’d decided that, in order to bypass my natural ability to be struck down with unstoppable tiredness, by sipping on mug after mug of coffee for the entire day. This left me acting like the character Spud from Trainspotting who drops speed before an interview to “give him the edge”.

There’s more to the story though. The weekend before, Exotica and I had gone pottering around Camden Town. I’d bought a black sheer swing top from a 2^ndhand vintage shop and decided to don this for the rave. Just like I’m experiencing the same stress about reunion gear, I had similar concerns about rave gear. And although I knew that ravers generally wore tie-dyed, crocheted kinds of kit, I didn’t think I could pull it off because, having just arrived in London, I wasn’t “Ecstasy Skinny” yet. Accordingly, my kit of choice was: black caterpillar boots (the only shoes I owned), black cycling shorts (good stretch for big dance moves, no chafe, no chance of my butt showing) and said sheer swing top. 

There’s a couple of things I didn’t know about raves and vintage swing tops which I know now. Firstly, if you decide to imbibe in staying awake substances other than coffee, you’re going to dance your arse off. And, if like me, you’re quite a sweaty person, you’ll get pretty dang slick and wet. Secondly, vintage swing tops can be made out of a fabric called “Georgette”. Wikipedia describes it as “originally made from silk, Georgette is made with highly twisted yarns.” 

Now, logic would dictate that when yarns become wet – especially twisted yarns – they’ll stretch. Not so. Apparently, it does the opposite. In addition, I discovered that my Georgette top wasn’t made from silk, but rather a blend of something and rayon. Rayon, I discovered, likes to shrink.

As each new trancy track was played, I danced and sweated and danced and sweated. And the seam that once sat neatly beneath my bustline, now found itself somewhere mid nipple. My hemline was no better. My swing top had gone from mid-thigh to  - as my dad would call it – a fanny pelmet. 

Never have I been so happy for short leggings. 

Needless to say, I’ll not be taking any chances at my reunion. I’ll play it safe with trousers and a sensible top. But I will imbibe in coffee. E for the over 40’s. (I’m hoping they’ll also be serving morphine pie for dessert. Where do all these inexplicable body aches come from?)

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