by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS
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Are your shoulder pads a Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte or Miranda?
Laughing at yourself is fun. Laughing at others is even better.
Now, before you skewer me and throw me over an open flame, let me explain. I am not talking about the kind of laughter that comes from watching another suffer at the hands of cruelty or mean-spiritedness. I am talking about watching your dearest friend, clearly over-served by the bartender, bump and grind on the dance floor with an equally over-served stranger. Or watching someone you adore emerge from the ladies’ room with her skirt tucked neatly in the back of her tights.
I had one such embarrassing incident back in 1988 or so. I was about 24 years old, living in downtown D.C. and running around with the world in my back pocket. My best friends and I spent many a night hitting the club scene, drinking cheap champagne for hours before pouring ourselves into a cab to head home.
Our favorite hangout was an upscale spot along the Georgetown waterfront called the River Club. We owned that joint. We were dressed to impress.
Now, I know not all of you will remember the miracle of shoulder pads and remember them with quite the fondness that I do, but believe me, I thought they were THE BOMB. No fashion ensemble of mine was ever complete without big hair, a short skirt and the biggest shoulder pads I could find.
