When my son turned 30 in November, his friends came up with the brilliant idea of throwing him a surprise Lost party.

Since I was to be a rather elderly participant in the proceedings, I was initially offered the role of Rose, a sweet, conventional older woman with a depressingly uncool wardrobe. As a typical boomer unwilling to face up to encroaching geezerhood, I asked central casting (my daughter and my son’s roommate) if they would allow me to switch my assigned role to that of Danielle Rousseau, a buff and slightly terrifying Amazonian woman of a certain age, whose props included rifle, dagger, army fatigues, combat boots and a grim, war-like countenance.

Apart from the fact that Danielle sports long, wavy brown hair and awesome pecs and is fearsomely athletic, we were practically twins. And my desire to dress up was enjoying its annual resurgence thanks to Halloween, when I had channelled my inner Goth by donning a long black skirt, matching top, gargantuan Roots boots and velvet choker, along with the requisite deathly pallor and black eyeliner, lipstick and nail polish.

When my request for a Lost role reversal was approved, I searched through my closet for elements that could mimic Danielle’s ensemble. I unearthed an army green tank top, a brown leather belt and my faithful boots, along with a slightly tatty shawl/wrap that bore a passing resemblance to that of my doppelganger as seen in Google images. A friend supplied the cargo pants and a camouflage shoulder bag: all that was missing was the long curly hair and a dagger that didn’t look as if it came from a toy shop, always assuming that toy shops even sell surrogate weapons any more.

I hopped on the GO bus and made my way to Exile in Kensington Market, where a sales person, his face fetchingly festooned with metal appendages, helped me select the perfect wig, delightfully dubbed ‘Garage Band’. I trimmed the bangs which reached the tip of my nose, tied a nifty bandana around my head and was all set to scour the unnamed island in search of mysterious clouds of ink-black smoke and the evil Benjamin Linus and his nefarious Others.

Up until a few years ago, I was a TV ignoramus whose knowledge of network shows was limited to old Mary Tyler Moore reruns and early episodes of Dr. Who. But having children does wonders for one’s education in popular culture, and latterly I have become something of an aficionado of such intellectual fare as Desperate Housewives, Six Feet Under, Damages and, of course, the almighty Lost itself.

Thanks to my son, I have sat through back-to-back episodes and been apprised of connections between characters, links to various philosophers and even the books featured on the show, which of course can be purchased on the Lost website by simply clicking on the ABC TV store link. Mr. Wallethead, alas, has refused the opportunity to broaden his horizons, stubbornly insisting that he’d rather be reading The Black Book of Communism or bashing little white balls into tiny holes on a few acres of perfectly manicured grass.

Unfortunately he was doing just that down south on the week of the party, so he was spared the ignominy of dressing up. When asked who he would have chosen to be he replied, “Gandalf.” “But he’s in Lord of the Rings,” my daughter pointed out.

“I know,” said Mr. Wallethead, “but I thought I could arrive at the party and tell everyone I was lost.”

Categories: Columns, Vintage Whine
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