The Beat to My Heart.

"Wake me up before you go-go, don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo."

I did not know what a yo-yo had to do with anything. I still don't. Nobody has ever explained it and I have stopped asking. But in 1986, in Karachi, this was the most important sentence in the English language. I couldn't have told you what a go-go was if my pocket money depended on it. But I felt it in my bones.

I was eleven. I had a cassette player. I was not a child to be reasoned with.

It was the weekend. Finally. I had been waiting all week for this.

I came through the door at a speed that would concern most parents. Tennis shoes went first, one, two, flung into the air with no plan and no forwarding address. One landed under the bed. The other, I believe, is still missing. One sock off. The second sock launched itself onto the ceiling fan, where it began to spin in slow, majestic circles, like a tiny cotton flag celebrating my arrival. I did not investigate. I had a concert to run.

I leapt onto the bed, springs shrieking beneath me in protest, and slid the tape into the black cassette player with the steady hands of a surgeon and the emotional stakes of a hostage negotiation.

Click.

Volume all the way up. This was not a discussion.

"Wake me up before you go-go—"

Jump. Squeak. Jump. Squeak. The bed and I had an arrangement. It groaned; I ignored it. This is called artistry.

And when the song ended, I did not simply press a button like some spoiled child of the future. No. The tape would spill out, loose and tangled, and I would fish out a yellow pencil, slot it into the little wheel, and wind it back by hand. Round and round. Slowly. With the patience of a monk and the precision of a jeweler. This was the umpteenth time. There would be many more.

Now. The outfit.

The t-shirt was fluorescent yellow. And I need you to fully understand this yellow. Not sunshine. Not lemon. This was the yellow of a traffic cone going through a difficult divorce. Visible from space, possibly from the future. I wore it with the confidence of a woman who owned exactly one good idea and was committing to it entirely.

The eyeshadow was two colors, because one color is for people who are not serious. Blue on the lid. Purple above. Blended? Absolutely not. Blending had not yet reached my bathroom and, frankly, was not invited. I looked, in my expert opinion, devastating.

The glitter was the finale. One finger. One compact. Pressed on with the force of a woman making a statement. I walked out of that bathroom fully believing I was a backup dancer for Wham!, personally scouted by George Michael in a crowd.

I was eleven. In Karachi. Going absolutely nowhere.

But here is what I understand now.

That girl, fluorescent, glittered, gloriously unblended, rewinding the same song by hand, was not lost. She was rehearsing. Joy at full volume. Boldness before permission.

She didn't need to go anywhere.

She was already exactly where she was meant to be.