BoomerGirl Diary

Omigod. Gag me with a serious case of self-consciousness. I am so peeved at myself right now. Yesterday, opportunity came knocking and what did I do? I froze. I inspected the sidewalk for cracks. I couldn’t make eye contact. I was caught off-guard.

Instantly, I regressed to that shy school girl I once was, terrified to get up in front of the class and utter a syllable or two.

So when the nice blonde lady with the ABC news logo ask me if I wanted to say a few things about the 25th anniversary of “Valley Girl” for “Good Morning, America,” I choked. I stared at the camera guy behind her and shook my head.

In a voice so disturbingly meek I didn’t realize it was mine, I fumphered, “Oh… uh… I didn’t grow up here, so… no, sorry, but good luck.”

I didn’t grow up here? That’s news to me. Well, it’s partially true. I grew up on the sophisticated Westside. I wasn’t born in the Valley. I swore I’d never live in the Valley. Too white bread, too suburban. Snooty Westsiders like me viewed the Valley as a vast cultural wasteland. You had to get shots to go there.

“Valley Girl” came out in 1983 when I was 25. But I didn’t move to the Valley until ’86. And I only figured out how to find Ventura Boulevard last week.

How could I wax eloquent on camera about something I knew so little about? I’d never even been to the original Galleria.

Okay, so maybe I knew all the funny catch phrases from Moon Zappa’s novelty song. I’d certainly seen the Martha Coolidge movie. I was impressed with Nicolas Cage’s debut, although his receding hairline did worry me.

Yes, I probably could’ve come up with a few witty observations about this important turning point in American history. The fact that I’d secretly marked it on my calendar (OMG! 25th Anniversary of “Valley Girl”) is beside the point.

I had good reason to bolt. The food I’d just picked up for dinner would have gone cold if I’d hung around to grab a little limelight.

What’s worse, I was having a really bad hair day. There’s just no way to sugarcoat this, people. I looked like crap. I was an embarrassment to myself and all members of my immediate gene pool. I had no makeup on; not a trace of blush or lipstick.

I could sense my mother glaring down at me from up above, deeply disappointed. She’d set a fine example. She never left the house without makeup. She always dressed nicely, no matter the errand. She took pride in herself. She’d taught me to do the same, but somewhere I’d discarded the lesson plan. Somewhere along the way, I’d gone lazy.

It shames me to tell you what I was wearing, but tell you, I must. For this take-out occasion, I’d adorned myself in sweats that might as well have been from the ’80s, that’s how ratty they looked. Opting for comfort, I’d left my bra at home. This was an outfit suitable for taking out the trash. This was not how I wished to be remembered by my fan(s). I won’t name you. You know who you are.

Oh, alright. Hi, Dad.

In my own defense, the odds that “GMA” would randomly appear outside Baja Fresh and request an interview seemed slim. Yet there they were and I blew it.

Vanity stepped in, shoving my confidence aside. “Do you really want to be seen on national TV, looking pale and schleppy with unmanageable hair?”

My answer came quickly. “Hell, no.”

Vanity followed me to the parking lot and applauded my smart decision. The minute I got in my car, I told Vanity to shut up and backed up over her foot. I was filled with regret. Life is too short, I scolded myself. Who cares how I look? It would’ve been fun. Now I’ll never know.

Then again, maybe I will. After all, this is L.A. There are always news crews chasing stories. I might get another shot to gab on “GMA.”

Just in case, I’ve hired a makeup artist, hair stylist and wardrobe consultant to accompany me on future outings. Whether I’m off to the market, gas station or drycleaners, I plan to look glam from here on out. No more slacking off for me. I’m going to look sharp if it kills me. The next time a reporter asks for an interview, I’ll be ready. Camera-ready, fer sure!