Don’t worry, girl, be happy
April in Glenwood
I’m searching for a little thing called happiness.
I know, everyone wants to be happy. Nobody likes to be miserable, unless they’re Robert Smith of The Cure or Kurt Cobain of Nirvana, who figured out that misery does love company ” and big paychecks from record companies.
When I say I’m searching for happiness, I mean the kind I felt as a little girl.
I long for the days when climbing trees in my frontyard was a priority, instead of climbing a corporate ladder.
Life didn’t get much better than dancing to the “Grease” soundtrack with my best friend.
That was, of course, before I put thought into the lyrics, “Tell me more, tell me more, did she put up a fight?”
I miss those unassuming, prepubescent years before I found out the real reason a crush is called a . Puppy love isn’t always that cute and cuddly, either.
All this talk of happiness is the result of a recent e-mail I received from a gentleman who thought my columns show an anger and unhappiness with men. I gave this some thought, and I’m not so sold on that assumption.
Sure men can get my goat sometimes, but I really love them. Really, I do. And why wouldn’t I?
Two Frenchmen are responsible for inventing the bikini, a piece of summertime clothing with which I have a love-hate relationship. Wearing a bikini can be as mortifying as donning a headgear on the first day of middle school. But, on a non-bloated tummy day, sporting a bikini can be as liberating as signing divorce papers alongside a cheating husband.
A musical man, Adolph Rickenbacker, invented the electric guitar. I don’t know how to play the string instrument, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t fallen for guys who do.
Some guitarists are the players.
I doubt if I’m the only product of the ’80s who found Bret Michael’s line from Poison’s “Talk Dirty To Me” to be a moving piece of songwriting genius. (Not just anyone can say “C.C. pick up that guitar and talk to me” and really mean it.)
As much a part of my pre-teens as any spandex pant-wearing hair band, roller skates are one Dutchman’s invention that glided me into puberty. Roller Cave skating parties were a lot more fun in the fifth grade than a year later, when boys no longer had cooties and couples slow skated to Reo Speedwagon songs.
I can’t fight this feeling of wishing I were in the fourth grade again, wearing Jordache jeans and a green terry cloth headband.
Roller skating can be quite the workout.
A man invented the tattoo, an “artform” I appreciate on me now, but wonder if I will completely regret when I’m 89.
What is now a four-leaf clover will probably look more like a shriveled piece of broccoli by the time I’m collecting Social Security.
A man not only invented the tattoo, but it was a male who gave me mine on the early morning of my 30th birthday. I say this in reference to the 3 a.m. visit to a Tampa tattoo parlor when, after entering his cramped studio with my friend Tari, I asked the gentleman to show me some of his work.
Boy did he.
I can’t give all the disturbing details, then this column would be called “April in Need of a Job.” Let’s just say he had a steady hand, pain is subjective and flames can be tattooed anywhere a man can reach. Ouch.
The thought of that should make every girl out there happy.
I happen to be smiling right now.
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In a fraction of a second I went from a full sprint to skidding across the ground — pea-sized gravel gashing my knees and elbows, turning them into strawberry crisp.