Oh, my God, You know I have a talent for getting lost in airports, parking lots, hotels, and breakfast areas. (Where did they hide the coffee? Oh. The same place as yesterday.) OMG, I’m so thankful You always know where I am, even if I don’t.
O my God, thank You for October, with its colorful leaves and pumpkin-spice everything. But some of Your humans have declared it National Liver Awareness Month. OMG, do You think we should spend 30 days thinking about liver? After half a century, I’m still trying to forget my mother made me taste it.
O my God, thank You for making Hubby and I unique individuals. But now that it’s October, he wants to turn on the heat. I still want to throw open windows. OMG, for us, marriage gives a whole new meaning to “hot woman” and “cool guy.”
Baby Boomers still like to think they’re brave. Creative. A generation like no other.
Anything but respectable.
During the ’60s, “respectable” reeked of The Establishment: Father Knows Best, the suburbs, hairspray, and Lawrence Welk.
My generation, on the other hand, was born to be wild. We listened to sounds of silence, but obviously didn’t like them, because we played our music loud.
Baby Boomers once believed “all you need is love.” However, we discovered the need for a little bread for mortgage payments. As Boomers age, the word “drugs” now turns thoughts toward AARP insurance plans rather than The Moody Blues.
During our hairy, youthful era, how could we have foreseen being buddies with barbers and beauticians?
That people would regard us as trustworthy. Even (ulp!) respectable.
Have we really sunk so low?
Oh, yeah. While I waited for my husband outside a convenience store, a flashy convertible with a monster dog and beefy driver pulled in. Most Gen Xers avoid eye contact, but he approached me with a big smile.
Whoa, my wrinkle cream must have worked magic.
“Ma’am, I need to go inside. My dog might jump out. Would you stay with her?” He disappeared before before I could say “yes,” “no” or “I have rabies.”
I decided to change wrinkle creams. If I lived.
PuppyZilla didn’t growl, but I estimated her mouthful of teeth just about spanned my neck.
Staring at me, she probably entertained similar thoughts.
I told her Lassie and Benji were my heroes. That I hated Cruella De Vil and would never, ever wear a Dalmatian coat.
PuppyZ shifted restlessly. What if she decided to raid a garbage can in, say, Alaska?
Maybe I should sit on her. I pictured my husband finding me astride a giant dog in somebody else’s convertible.
Fortunately, the driver returned. I waved a motherly goodbye as they drove away.
Only one incident? I wish.
The Boomer part of me rejoiced. Did I resemble a vagrant who needed to move on?
He shattered my hopes. “My daughter needs her clarinet. I’ll return in 15 minutes.”
In 15 minutes I could have procured free Christmas presents for the next 30 years.
Instead, I made sure nobody raided the cash register.
He had faith in me. What had I done to deserve such treatment?
Nothing. But he, like the Gen X guy and PuppyZ, trusted this Baby Boomer when they needed a helping hand.
But definitely groovy.
Well, that’s me. But how does the tag “respectable” hit you?