The unlikely links between "the boss" and the debutantes

I had an assortment of chips on my shoulders in high school. (Admit it, so did you. It's a requisite part of teenage angst.) I was acutely aware that I was the poor, fat, socially awkward kid in the school full of rich, beautiful, socially adept young ladies. I felt the differences keenly and, as jealous people often do, set out to prove that what they were all about was unimportant, and I could differentiate myself in other ways.

I was particularly fortunate in that I sought my differentiation in academics and student journalism, productively channelling those negative feelings into the track record that would get me into Northwestern. You certainly wouldn't be reading this blog now if I'd gone for drugs, sex and rock and roll. (Though I might have had more to write about.) Later, I tried to differentiate with a fantastic social life, travel, career and living overseas. All elements that could help me dismiss the importance of being pixie cute, well financed by your father and sought after by boys from the St. Louis establishment.

As with so many legacies of high school, those chips sat on my shoulders for a LONG time. For many years I dreaded the high school gatherings that happened so frequently in cozy St. Louis society. No matter how successful or glamorous my life became, I always felt that I was looked down upon because I hadn't managed to become an adorable soccer mom with well groomed children and a prosperous husband. It took the passage of time and the accrual of maturity to realise that nobody was actually judging me. I was far more distressed about my single, childless state than were my classmates; I suppose it was just easier to get defensive about their perceived sleights than to be honest about my fears and perceived shortcomings.

All this introspective background is meant to give context to how remarkable a step it was for me to be out with the Villa girls (class of 82), and, indeed, for it to be one of the highlights of my visit home. Comfortable, having a great time and appreciating the sense of community between us. (Although a bit amused and embarrassed about what a "special treat" it was for most of the rest of them to be out in a noisy bar quaffing alcohol and having a good gossip. Their exotic evening out is my run of the mill existence.)

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the easy rapport that now exists. After all, I spent ages 3 - 17 with many of these women. It shouldn't surprise me that the connections have lasted through the chips on the shoulder. While it's almost inconceivable that I'll ever move back to St. Louis, it's a real delight having such a solid base of friends there, particularly when I need support when dealing with family issues. It turns out that old friends, like fine wines, mature beautifully.

Of course it wasn't me against the whole high school world in 1982. I had my soul mates and fellow rebels, and it was with one of those that I took in the Bruce Springsteen concert a few nights later. This seemed particularly appropriate. Bruce was as close as a Villa girl got to music of rebellion. Punk was admittedly way too extreme for me, but associating with the hard driving rock and roll of the New Jersey working class seemed exotic and as far away from the world of St. Louis debutantes as one could get. And he sounded good.

I saw Springsteen in college. He was doing his "Tunnel of Love" tour. Good, but not extraordinary, probably because his somber, post-divorce mood was flavouring much of his musical choice. Those days are long gone. He has put many more albums behind him and seems to be in a resolutely cheery state of mind. At least if we judge on the composition of his musical sets for this concert, which were almost all drawn from his infectious, stand-up-and-dance-while-bellowing-along songbook. We rarely sat down through the remarkable, non-stop three hours he performed. In addition to the continual flow of songs we knew and loved, Bruce scattered some fantastic cover versions of other people's danceable tunes throughout. "And then she kissed me", "twist and shout" and "mountain of love" all deserve official Springsteen recordings.

Of course, as with so many people who've been around for a long time, there's something almost religious in the communality of the concert experience. Where else, these days, do you get thousands of people pouring their hearts out in jubilation, singing anthems as one? Hymn writers would be delighted, though none of them ever conceived of 20,000 happily howling "because tramps like us, baby we were born to run." I am quite sure that by the middle of the encore we had achieved time travel, because as we were "dancing in the dark" we were both 19 again, it was 1984 and the ghostly walls of a fraternity house were shimmering around me. Springsteen himself has surely discovered some time-defying magic, because he's just as sexy now as he was then, looking and performing like a 38-year-old instead of his actual 58.

Although I hung my, admittedly weak, rebel credentials on Bruce in the '80s, it was his concert that proved to me that I never really rebelled at all. My friend's husband, on hearing that I'd never owned a concert tee shirt, offered to go get me one. Much as I love Bruce, I refused. There are certain fashion lines I am just never going to cross. Clearly, once a Villa girl ... always a Villa girl.