Plot-wise I don't remember much. Just Sarah Jessica Parker's wild-child BFF sassy-ing up her Catholic school plaids every day after the bell. Yanking a fistful of hair into a pony tail that she planted on top of her head. I was similarly sentenced to the unfashionable and stiff swatch of blues and greens, knee high socks, white or yellow button ups or polo shirts, cardigans that collected eraser dust. And for awhile after seeing that movie, I did my own clunky version of Lynne Stone's striptease. Tugging off the skirt to reveal jams made of fabric made of modern art patterns. Going a notch lower with the buttons of my oxford shirt to reveal a hot pink tank top. Rolling my socks around my ankles, like donuts balanced atop Keds. Pony tail. Wad of Hubba Bubba. Red-tinted lip gloss from a long-gone dress up kit.
My rebellion didn't go much further than that. It never occurred to me to sample spoonfuls of Gordon's gin from a plastic bottle in a small cupboard by the sink. Probably a leftover from a New Year's Eve party in 1974. So I just laid around and watched "Three's Company," looked at my hair in the mirror, ate Saltines.
Last night Chuck and I saw "The Runaways," at Zinema 2 (Awesome. Seriously), and my first thought was: "Thank God I didn't see that when I was 10." There wouldn't have been enough gold lame in that house to fulfill my Cherie Currie crush. Not to mention the lack of access to pills stronger than Women's One a Day. And then I was kind of jealous that I didn't see it when I was 10 years old. I'd probably still be collecting cat suits, smokey eyeliner and growling "Hello, Daddy. Hello Mom ..." into every recording or voice amplifying device I encountered.
And then I thought: Who am I kidding. At 10, I would have wanted to be Joan Jett. Hell, at 5 I wanted to be Joan Jett.