Why I Will Always Pretend Milli Vanilli Are The Real Deal
It’s actually raining and while the drops silently wet the bare trees — I’m cuddling my iPhone — like I always do in the mornings — before rising to prep for the hour-long appointment with the gym. Nostalgia overwhelms when I think about the days past when working out wasn’t even a consideration — because my naturally lithe frame bounced me out of bed at record speed as the vitality of youth allowed me to beat the threat of puddles like a pro.
As I zip past the Moments — I stumble upon the frame of the musical duo that literally framed my youth — and suddenly I’m transported back to the vibrating echoes of my teenage years — with all the lustful vibes framing my expectations — as the walkman I’m cradling rocks to the beat of the childhood friend who was inspired by his crush when he created my playlist.
The gym will have to wait — because I have more important matters to tend to and it will be much more effective indoors without the challenge of evading floods of water — gathering with the authority of skies — bloated with unresolved memories.
Yes, Fab and Rob were sucked into a world that fucked them hard and then left them to bleed after the secret of their success was used as a weapon of mass destruction — but the truth is that I’ve always pretended that it never happened.
Who the hell willingly surrenders the fibers of their existence to a universe that is waiting to eviscerate the version of what you’re presently holding on to for dear life?
Girl You Know It’s True — and believe I was that girl.
I fantasized about the guy who finally gave my mother a break when it came to getting us out of bed and dressed for church. Before then — dramatically booted out — by a drill sergeant who commanded by wardrobe and made me wonder how God could be this cruel to a girl who thought mastering the Lord’s Prayer was enough for heaven. Then — during communion — there he was — casually holy without the “holier than thou” stance he deserved. After service — as we drove home — his flashy car overtook ours and my dad’s comment made him even hotter. I used that scene over and over again with the song that made him love me — even when he didn’t know it was true.
Baby Don’t Forget My Number — was just what I needed from the boy who liked me even when he knew I couldn’t like him back — because…life.
Nothing has changed. I still haven’t found the love that matches hearts with the assigned latchet. And it started way back in the day — when I was young enough to believe that I could hold out for anyone who didn’t instruct that I keep those digits intact. Regardless of the commitment — when that phone rang and broke up the union of a household — you raced like your heart depended on it.
Girl I’m Gonna Miss You — and he did.
It was the last song on the list. I was leaving on a jet plane to a place far away where dreamers dare to venture — and it didn’t take a shithole country to inspire my exit. It was all in the cards even before I was able to decide if the plan matched my unformed disposition. Maybe if I knew what I know now — there wouldn’t have been a need to vacate the premises — just when the cracks of a soundtrack that held me down were beginning to expand.
I missed him more when I was gone and even more when he called and couldn’t understand what I was saying. The years swept by and then the reunion — that turned into a shock of what happens when growing up becomes the hardest thing you have to do.
He wasn’t and isn’t what I could want or have — and the gift he gave me all those years ago should serve as what happens when you believe in the lie that sounded great enough to make a fool out of you.
But I refuse to scrub away the silhouette of my fragility — because the moments when Milli Vanilli still possessed enough worth to be remembered — dictated the era of my blissful naivety.
And now? Girl! I still know the truth. I just don’t give a fuck!