Today, a rare mid-week venture into the city for lunch with one of my oldest friends. And the best part is that it was at a restaurant that we used to frequent quite often, but never together. For both of us, though, the circa 1982 ritual had been the same: shopping at Esprit and lunch at San Francisco Bar-B-Q, which just happens to be the craziest yummiest Thai barbecue around. Plus, it's so cheap that they practically pay you to eat.
But getting back to the Esprit thing.
I loved that place. I loved that the exit we took to get there was called "Mariposa." I loved the huge industrial rolling racks with the bins that overflowed with endless amounts of garanimals-for-teens outfits. I loved the cement floor and the big posters and the even bigger mirrors. I loved the sassy people who worked there. I loved the way my Dad sat near the entrance falling asleep in a chair while I blithely did major damage to his checkbook. I even loved the communal dressing room filled with half-naked females flinging clothes all over the place. It is any wonder that some of my least angst-ridden high school moments occurred while I was dressed in head-to-toe Esprit?
I have to go now, as I am swooning in an 80s reverie and in danger of fainting.