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.