I don’t know why they accepted me into the fold, but the group of girls I hung out with during my formative years were the sweetest, most wholesome girls anywhere.
At 14, none of us had even held hands with a boy, much less performed what one of them referred to as the horizontal hokey pokey. For my friends, it was a matter of choice; they were waiting until the ink was dry on their marriage certificates before putting out. As for me, well, I accepted that the magnitude of my dorkiness would damn me to a lifetime of what Oscar Wilde termed “a very passionate celibacy.”
Either way, sex was dirty. It wasn’t something we did, nor was it something we talked about.
That’s why I figured I wouldn’t be allowed to bring my Spice Girls CDs to any of our slumber parties. I was wrong. My friends absolutely loved the Spice Girls.
If you’ve somehow scoured “Wannabe” from your gray matter, allow me to remind you of its infamous last words:
“Slam your body down and wind it all around/Slam your body down and wind it all around/Slam your body down and zig-a-zig-ah.”
Somehow, my friends didn’t see anything wrong with the concept of slamming, winding, zig-a-zigging bodies.
“Guys, don’t you want to turn that down? What if your parents walk by?” I asked.
They laughed at my concern.
“Well you know, they’re singing about abstinence,” one of them said.
“Um, I am pretty sure they are not.”
“Yeah, that’s what girl power is all about.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Uh, Carrie, check out the CD case.”
“I see boobs.”
“No, silly. Look at the back.”
“No, look. Right there. It says ‘Virgin.'”
“Yeah, but …”
“So they’re all virgins! That’s what the songs are about!”
“I am pretty sure that’s the name of the record label.”