Momo Freaks Out

When I got off the bus this morning, I started thinking about important things, viz, leggings and just how many years I've embraced this 80s revival.

"How Long is Too Long?", I wondered, just like the Smiths song. Particularly when it comes to embracing an 80s revival, like leggings.

Except, the song I was thinking of was: "How Soon is Now?"

In either case, the answer is: "How Long is a Piece of String?"

"Leggings, eh?" I thought to myself. "Just how long have I been wearing them and when will the novelty of leggings - essentially being tights with the feet cut out of them, as some of my very own DIY versions are - ever, ever wear off?"

And I thought back to 1983 when, as a seven-year-old, I took my first dip into the world of the footless and fancy free. Then, I partook in jazz ballet classes. Re-enacting the best moments of Cabaret, 80s style, my first-ever pair of leggings were the same green as the inside bit of a mint Aero bar, paired with a baby pink leotard that was cross-sectioned at five-centimetre intervals with horizontal jade-green pinstripes.

So, they were my first leggings. And, already, at the tender age of seven, I was subscribing diligently to the old misquoted saying "Green and green should never be seen, unless there's something in between."

What's more, there was something in between the green and green of my ensemble.

The baby pink of the leotard.

Snap!

I truly gave a new depth to the word wunderkind there, didn't I?

And yes, my dalliance with jazz ballet lasted a good four lessons or so, until I couldn't be arsed with any of this dancing guff and grandly dropped out of my Wednesday night classes to watch a great new TV sitcom from America called Who's the Boss? Or perhaps it was Charles In Charge.

To be honest, I don't remember which program it was, but surely, considering it was 1983, it was a TV sitcom that had something to do with challenging "traditional" male domestic roles, resplendent with wha-a-acky canned-laughter at the pure hilarity of a man working as a live-in housemaid. Or babysitter.

Heeehoohaaaaa!

I guess no one but me has ever made this discursive study into Scott "Chachi/Charles" Baio and Tony "Tony" Danza being to gender-bendering in the world of early-mid 80s TV sitcoms what Boy George and Marilyn and ... and ... Divine were to gender bendering in the world of early-mid 80s pop songs.

Rambling discursive studies aside, this morning I incisively calculated in my head that I recommenced wearing leggings "Oh, about five years ago, back in spring of 2001". Which, if you incisively calculate, is actually five years ago. Otherwise thought of as half the length of the 1980s. Like far longer than leggings were ever originally in fashion.

And, there it was, like a harbinger over the head. Me, aged 40, 50, 60, still in leggings. Like Dad and his Status Quo vests, spanning three to four decades of vestdom.

I shuddered.

Later:

At work, a colleague suggested loudly to all and sundry in the department that we all dress up as Madonna next week, to celebrate her pending tour of the UK.

"HEY! I'LL DRESS UP AS MADONNA!" I quipped chirpily.

"Isn't that what you do most days?" she responded.

And, my friends, I think I inhaled half of the open-plan office space in aghast.

SCHLIIIIIIPPPPPPP!

Then (considering my pondering earlier in the morning) I could hardly believe it when my workmates started verbally cataloguing my leggings collection, arcing the colour spectrum from my green "Christmas elf" leggings, through to my yellow "Big Bird" leggings.

Perturbed at such descriptions, and, I concur, truly scraping the bottom of the barrel of natty retorts, I retorted:

"Yeah? Well, leggings are the thinking-woman's jeans, alright?"

Some switched-on soul hooted:

"And what's THAT supposed to mean?!"

While I defensively muttered something about "shut up" and "I'm leaving the country in five weeks, me and my leggings, which are of course not only a wonderful fashion adventure, but great for preventing deep-vein thrombosis on aeroplanes, so bite my colourfully lycra-hugged be-legginged arse*."

*I do wear skirts over the leggings, mind you.