'90s Problems

Chapter 1

"Don't you miss having someone to love?" "It's not the same when there's no growing old together. Without that love is just heartbreak." - Age of Adaline, in theaters April 24

After living through nine decades of fashion, I could definitively say that bike shorts were the single most ridiculous item of clothing ever invented.  I’d only pulled on the lavender skin-tight pair less than half an hour ago, before dashing out the door late for my first every jogging club in the Royal Botanic gardens, and already they were shoe-horning themselves into places they had no right being.

Trying to furtively pull at my crotch without looking like I was a person who ordinarily tugged at their genitals in public, I gazed around at my fellow runners, seeing if just maybe someone might smile at me and want to have a conversation.  One of the many bummers of not aging, was constantly having to move cities.  I’d found that about once a decade worked pretty well – long enough to get settled, not long enough to have people question why you never developed wrinkles.

But it also meant that every ten years or so, I became a friendless wonder, which wasn’t ideal because I was a social creature.  And by social creature, I mean I liked to talk a lot.  Maybe too much.  Over the years, especially the twenties, thirties and forties, I’d been accused to being far too outspoken for a woman – too brash, too loud, too funny. 

The nineties had been a good time for me.  The massive influx of hilarious women on TV and film had helped – thank you Monica, Elaine and Grace - and now, I was generally seen as fun and outgoing by the people who knew me.

But nobody knows me here - yet…  I’d only just arrived in Melbourne after spending an awesome ten years in London.  Australia was my home – I’d been born in Melbourne in 1901, and I’d always wanted to come back. 

Attempting to casually sidle over to a girl about the age I was when I contracted my condition, thirty-ish, I said, “Hey!  I’m Evianna!  So, what’s the deal with jogging, hey?  You look like you’re pretty good at it.”  She made bike shorts look good, with muscular thighs filling out the Lycra material, and a teeny-tiny sports bra on top.  “So, what’s the secret to a good jog?  Do you pretend you’re being chased by zombies or bears or something?”

She stared at me as if I sported a third boob, like that girl from Total Recall.  “Excuse me, I’m trying to get in the zone.”  She turned her back to me and lifted a foot to her perfectly toned rump, stretching out her quadriceps. 

“Oh…  Okay.  Sorry.  Have fun in the zone.”  Cheeks burning, I moved away, hoping that no one else had seen my tragic attempt to make a new friend. 

Fortunately at that moment, the head of the running group jumped up on a low wall beside the lake where we’d arranged to meet.  He was lithe like a panther, not an ounce of body fat on his flawless physique, and as camp as every clichéd gay man I’d ever met on the West End.  “Helloo, pretty people!  I’m Brandon, as if you didn’t already know.  So, who’s ready to run their asses off?”

He shook his backside at us, then smacked his own taut cheek.  Someone wolf-whistled and Brandon winked.  “Thanks, sweetie!  Okay, everyone, remember that jogging is different to running – you should still be able to easily talk while you’re doing it.  So, chat with some people, and you’ll know you’re in your optimal fat-burning zone.  Let’s do this thang!”

There was a general cheer and everybody surged forward along the pathway, at a speed I considered far too fast for discussions.  Not wanting to get left behind, I stumbled along on my brand-new Nikes, which were so blisteringly white, they practically screamed ‘newbie!’