Check Out Those Shoulder Pads

I look like a linebacker

Tonight I will watch the Emmy Awards and allow myself a brief mo' of nostalgia for all the times I got to attend the ceremony with my network-employed hubby.  It's not the celeb encounters I will think about, or who won and who didn't.  This isn't what makes me emote.  What does:  all those ill-fitting outfits I borrowed for the big night out.  The first time we went (1990), I wore my mother's black cocktail dress, my mother's pearls, my mother's earrings, my mother's bracelet.  With my short stylish 'do, and those broad shoulder pads, I looked exactly like, who else, my mother. The second year, when I was preggers with the future rapper, Scott D, I wore a pink chiffon two-piece thing that did me no favors, passed down from pregnant friend to pregnant friend, as some sort of cruel joke.  I looked like a giant party balloon on the verge of popping.  Another time, I wore my mother's black silk pantsuit and white lace top.  At some point, I advanced to my own wardrobe, a somewhat grownup move on my part, but borrowed jewelry from Carla.  The theory that "no one will be looking at you," served me well over the years of Emmy-going.  We stopped schlepping to the Shrine a while back, mainly because I couldn't find something sassy to wear.  So tonight I will watch the Emmy Awards, now held at the Nokia Theatre, in the comfort of my Sherman Oaks castle.  I will order the servants around.  "More champagne!  More imported caviar! Hurry up, bitches!"  I will root for the nominees.  I will cringe at the corny jokes and pray Jane Lynch is funny.  I will not wear shoulder pads.  Those have been retired.  Please God, may they never make a comeback.