In 1983, I was at Chimacum High School in the farthest boondocks of Washington State. I was 15. Alternately a good kid and a raging lunatic. I was woefully unpopular and growing out an unfortunate asymmetrical haircut. I was learning to drive and listening to the Stones and The Who and Duran Duran and I even lip-synched Irene Cara’s “Why Me?” at a talent show.

The man I will soon marry was 22, in a band, managed by Barry Manilow. They dressed him in white leather and razor-cut clothes and a bandanna. He had a small son. He was a rock star in California. Had we met then, I’m sure he would have been nicely dismissive. I would have been too young. He is good. So good and so kind. And I was such a dork.

I took the scenic route to where I am now. There is no way I would have predicted that it would take a good 27 more years until I got married. No less, to a man with three children and one grandchild (still taking suggestions on what to be called as Evan’s grandmother. My grandmother preferred “Grace” or “Gracie”).

I do believe that time knows its own way and travels in the path it is supposed to. But I do wish, the tiniest bit, I could have been the girl with the fake ID and too much eye makeup in the audience who could have scored a makeout session with Steve after the gig.
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Vanessa McGradyVoices

Comments 3

  1. fortymama

    Ok, I can’t top that comment. Just want to say hi and that you’re looking smokin’ hot with that hair! Being totally, fantastically in love agrees with you.

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