Once and Forever I Will Always Be an Olivia Newton-John Fan
My first concert was Olivia Newton-John during her Physical tour. It was 1982 and I was 11. I remember exactly what I wore, because it would be snazzy today after many years of it being an utterly shameful outfit: a navy blue knicker jumpsuit with gold piping and epaulets. With wedge heels? Lookout. I felt like a dork. I was a dork.
My best friend and I were determined to get tickets, so we sat on the Ticketron telephone line all day, dialing and redialing the rotary until we didn’t hear a busy signal. Because my mom was a divorcee and a little cooler to be seen with than my friend’s mom, the cafeteria lunch lady, she had to accompany us, but that made dancing in the aisle to “Totally Hot” a memory I hope was buried in her lifetime of more important shit to worry about. We danced to “Physical” in the Summit, which was where the Houston Rockets played then and is now Joel Osteen’s megachurch. Olivia Newton-John was arena rock.
My friend Camille and I were competitive in our love for Olivia, so we bought her entire catalog of LPs and memorized every song, trying to one up each other on lyrical knowledge. This is the only time I can remember having been competitive at anything. I was downright territorial. Only I truly knew Olivia. She was my idol, and nobody loved her more. On Halloween, in the fourth grade, I remember Camille walking out of the gym looking just like Olivia in the end scene in Grease with the satin pants and off the shoulder shirt. Her hair was curled—and I swear it was frosted like Olivia’s at the end of the movie—in the exact same way. Camille looked more like her than I did. I was seething with jealousy. Her mom—no, surely a team of professionals—must have helped her with that costume. Fucking hated her. Still do. If I saw her in the street, I’d kill her.