Counting Crow’s Feet

Sitting at a traffic light the other day, I was staring into the window of a local record store.  Studying the posters in the window, I found the band names so odd they sounded like practical jokes.  One of the band names was printed on a pattern that looked just like a Laura Ashley dress I wore in the eighties.  Now it’s hipster retro.  Suddenly it dawned on me that I am retro (minus hipster).

I was still licking my wounds on the night I began a poetry class.  Did I really expect to fit in on a college campus?  I was the only one without a tattoo.  When did tattoos become as common as t-shirts?  Also I was the only one with a small green alligator on my shirt.  A pink Izod (I just spelled it iZod!) is not cutting edge fashion for Gen Y.  Did I mention that I’m the only one who brushed my hair that day?  Last but not least, I do not have a Nalgene bottle.  Cradling my Starbuck’s cup in my hand, I might as well have painted “I don’t give a shit about the environment” on my forehead.

Am I a lost cause?  Should I surrender to my emerging gray hairs, and schedule my first cut-and-color appointment?  Is my enrollment in a poetry class the epitome of a mid-life crisis?  Probably.  It’s surprise how getting older creeps up on you and then – BAM! – smacks you over the head one day when you’re sitting at a traffic light.  I plan to have a sense of humor about it.  Just this morning, the darling, young instructor at Dailey Method was horrified by a playlist full of eighties songs.  She practically vomited a few bars into a Paula Abdul song.  You can’t really blame her, can you?  I’m sure I never put a Paula Abdul song on a mixed tape.  It’s okay, Gen Xers.  Let’s own our curled bangs and our leg warmers.  Let’s reminisce about the Milli Vanilli scandal.  Might as well make our crow’s feet dance.


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