Kiddos swing their hips at New Jersey’s Brookside Swim Club during the 1950s, while moms look on. With a club record of 3000 spins (who was counting?), a 10-year-old boy claimed victory. I bet most of them didn’t last two minutes.
Spin while you can, son. Vertigo sets in as you age, at least in my case. Unless of course, the hoop is an onion ring. But then you get your cardigan and khakis all oily.
I read a lot of books in the tub. Since I only buy clearance books from the used book store, my budget is small. When I’m done, I simply donate them back. I could stand around for an hour and wait for them to ultimately offer me $1.78 for 45 books, but I prefer to just drop the boxes off and leave. The one I finished today was “In Such Good Company” by Carol Burnett. Only $3 and I read it while my husband was at his cardiac therapy. Next up: The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Who needs a carbonated beverage when hot and hunky Randy is only a meter away, and his Chanel Pour Monsieur is wafting toward you on the wings of love, mingled with the musky scent of teen athlete? Focus, Joyce, or you’ll drop your pom.
Hormones are high all around. Looks like she’s got designs on this guy.
The sight of Bill literally made Sally’s jaw fall open.
Too much nuzzling!
A’courting we shall go.
He shall be mine by nightfall. I will yet ensnare him.
It’s February 12, 1964, and nobody in New York City cares a farthing that it’s Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. The Beatles have just arrived in NYC, and frenzied Beatlemaniacs across the street from New York’s Plaza Hotel are losing. Their. Minds.
And if that doesn’t make you feel old enough, now we are actually in another set of Roaring 20s, or whatever adjective you’d like to choose. I’ve seen so many hundreds of yearbooks and thousands of pictures over the last 150 years, that it really chaps my hide when folks don’t even try to look era-specific. Don’t get me started on the mom’s hair in A Christmas Story.
Flappers had bobs. Not Crystal Gayle hair. Not Marcia Brady hair. Certainly not Chrissy Snow pigtails or a beehive. Sigh. Then again, it was just one night.
Now that businesses are opening up, folks are itching to get out of their houses and back to work. After seven weeks sans income, my husband returned to his job, carrying his mask and his hand sanitizer (which they are selling at 7-11 for $8 at about 3 oz!), making the arduous commute into Austin. Many young folks in Austin aren’t wearing masks at all, or much of anything, according to this picture taken at Lake Travis on Saturday. I guess they figured social distancing is just a suggestion.
My heart breaks to think of the healthcare workers on their feet for multiple shifts at a time, unable to eat or bathe, trying to cope with the trauma they witness as best they can, scared to carry unseen germs into their homes. My heart breaks for the victims who had no loving hand to hold during their final moments, no solace or comfort before they left their bodies forever, bodies destined to be shoved into makeshift coolers in New York. Perhaps it takes maturity, decades of learned compassion, prioritizing and realizing that this life is not about selfishness, and we all need each other to make it. Survival of the fittest is not the goal.
I get it. I want to be where the people are. I want to cavort again. But even though I’ve daily jogged and tried to stay positive, taking hot baths and reading scripture, ignoring endless negative articles thrown my way, I evidently could not tell my own body to chill. My muscles got so tight and restricted in my neck and chest last Sunday, that I could barely breathe for two days, and I wound up in an ambulance, headed to ER (the last place on earth you want to be during COVID). My temp was 98.0, and I had no cough at all, so they didn’t waste a virus test on me. They determined that the chest pain, SOB, and left arm numbness was not a heart attack, and sent me home. As they said, the job of ER is not to diagnose, but to “rule out.” That said, don’t be too hard on yourself if your body, your hormones, your emotions are so out of whack, no matter what you do for self -care. Dr. Phil said we are all in a fight or flight mode designed to last for several minutes, not several months, and we can’t control the way the body chooses to deal with it.
So I’ll stay home yet again, watching the cars roll down the street.
Knowing that soon, I’ll be riding tandem bikes again.
And crossing streets with my peeps.
Watching films at the theater. Okay, I won’t do that because I hate seeing movies in public, listening to babies cry and patrons chew popcorn loudly. Guh-ross. But you can.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin’ town, that toddlin’ town … ♪♫♪ No wonder they were toddling! Rolling on rubber was like skating on clouds with Chicago roller skates. This ad hails from my March 1926 issue of Child Life. You can bet they had a WAY better March than we just did. What do you make of this lantern-bearing imp?
The stock market was years away from crashing, so Easter was going to be LIT. Who wouldn’t want kraft toys of bunnies and ducks that ROLLED, just like those boss Chicago skates?
Or this disturbing gender-ambiguous amputee? What fun!
Little boys evidently wore ties when they colored and crafted. Mother, look, I dressed like Papa!
But when coloring was done, it was time to pull out the old Lanky Tinker (Tom Tinker’s cousin).