Sunday, March 27, 2011

Breakin' some springs.

Growing up in the early ‘80’s, there seemed to be certain movies that were running on a loop on HBO:

• Mask
• Mommie Dearest
• American Graffiti

American Graffiti was a movie made in the early 1970’s about rock-n-roll music and cruising set in 1962. The movie basically took place in the cars of the different teenage characters, showing them driving up and down the street, winking, smiling, and flirting with each other through open windows and jumping in and out of each others cars.

Some things never change.


Susanne and I, going on our third hour of "getting ready"

In high school, my girl gang and I would take off on Friday and Saturday nights to cruise the strip at Clearwater Beach in Florida. We would get all dolled up, doing full on hair and makeup and borrowing clothes from each other to achieve that perfect look. This was all so we could sit in my fathers maroon Mustang convertible and drive up and down the strip at Clearwater Beach over and over again until it was time to go home.

When I moved to Florida from New York I had no idea that I was moving to the spring break capital of the world. In this one insanely awesome week out of the year, hundreds and hundreds of out-of-towners would invade our sweet strip, which we found annoying and exhilarating at the same time. It was annoying because the line of cars on the strip would come to a standstill, but exhilarating because, well, boys from all over the country were hooting and hollering at us now.

My all time favorite pickup line was said to me by a teenage cowboy with no shirt and acid wash jeans. He drawled, “Hey baby, what you say we go upstairs to my hotel room and break some springs of our own?” Classy.

My girl gang and I would rent hotel rooms of our own on the strip and stay most of the week. I don’t recall how five to ten seventeen-year-old girls were able to rent a hotel (or should I say motel) room, but back in the day we were able to do it, no questions asked.

Some of the gang in front of the infamous Spy Glass Motel - Clearwater Beach, Florida

We didn’t refer to it as spring break; we called it “beach week”. Beach week involved a lot of hairspray and makeup, lying out in the sun, spraying endless bottles of “Sun In” and diluted lemon juice onto our hair, loud music, eating junk food, multiple outfit changes and multiple boys.

Luxurious Amenities.
Since we had a motel room we didn’t need to cruise the strip.  Instead, we would walk the strip and get cat-called by the tourists. I have so many diary entries of long lost loves from various beach week encounters. After the week long love affair was over, the “tourist” (or in my mind “love of my life”) would return back to Ohio , Nebraska , or wherever their pasty white selves were from never to be heard from again. Of course there would be letters mailed back and forth (remember letters? I miss letters) and long distance phone calls made, but alas, the beach week love-hookups did not seem to last.
But the core of beach week was that girl gang of mine. The boys were in and out of our cars and we were in and out of theirs, but the memory of my best friend Susanne doing my hair before a big night of sitting in a car, jumping on beds, throwing wet toilet paper on the ceilings of motel rooms and stuffing water balloons in our tops to make giant boobs is what warms my heart today.


By the way, no springs were broken with the shirtless acid wash cowboy. Thank you, young Lori, for surprisingly having some common sense.

1 comment:

  1. Everything about this post was similar to the Spring Breaks I spent each year with my 'crew' in Seaside Oregon. The only difference of course, was we weren't in swimsuits- EVER. It was Oregon after all:o)

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