LIADC: An Official Member?

I recall it well.

It was (what feels like) many, many moons ago.

My husband and I sitting on one of the many blue benches lining the boardwalk along the Atlantic ocean on a balmy summer evening, breathing in the salt air and lazily participating in one of my favorite pasttimes: people watching.

People watching. It is free. It is fanciful (oh the stories we come up with!). And at such a spot, it is a Parade of Personalities, without a single lull in action.

At one point, a man walked past wearing jean shorts that left pitifully little to the imagination in both length and breadth. His hair exuded an old-school 'Ken' Doll-esque style, but was slightly long enough in the back to also qualify as a mullet. His beige "Member's Only" coat was unzipped to his mid-pectoral section, coppery chest hairs bursting forth with nary a sign of an undershirt to contain or (better yet) conceal it's wild-n-wooly protrusion. He completed the look with, you guessed it, tube socks and sneakers.

What was interesting about this groovy guy is that he walked with the confidence of a man in his prime, a guy on the fly. He was completely in his element.

We had not communicated a word to each other about this particular passer-by, but my husband (and this was the only time it's EVER happened) read my mind when he said, 

"Yup. The seventies was his best decade".

Perhaps the Seventies were when he garnered the most looks, threw the grooviest parties and was simply, overall, "Dyno-mite!".

Clearly, he was endeared to that decade, for in terms of dress, he never had left it.

As he strutted away, I felt like calling out, "Far out, man!" and congratulating him for being such an obvious member of the LIADC ("Lost In Another Decade Club").

It made me chuckle. At least I was 'current'.

*****

This week several things have tipped me off that I may be approaching a full-member status of the very same club. I am a bit disturbed about it too.

The first yellow flag flew at a Rite Aid store. My husband and I enjoyed dinner out with the twins (I never thought I would find it relaxing to eat dinner out with 'only' two toddlers) and afterwards I asked him to stop by a pharmacy so I could run in for a few items. As I was scurrying down the soap/face wash aisle, my eye caught a familiar old shade of blue in form of astringent. Without a second thought, I felt my hand swoosh down, pick it up and open it's lid under my nose, inhaling deeply.

"SEA BREEZE, Where have you been????".

The smell transported me back to countless cotton-ball encounters that left my skin tingling. It had been YEARS since that sensation, and I could not bear to leave the drugstore without it. My dear husband must have wondered at my enthusiasm for the liquid purchase, nodding dutifully as I extolled the virtues of this  long-lost stringent cleanse. (We have such deep conversations in the car). I decided it was the right time to introduce it to my teenage step-son, as though it were a rite-of-passage.

****

Last evening, that same teenage step-son was sharing of how some girls color their hair with Kool Aid. (This is where the second flag flew, except it was red in color, not yellow). I suggested out loud (unfortunately)

that it was 'probably those punk-rocker girls that use Kool Aid'.

Suddenly, the room got very quiet.

{crickets chirping. chirping. chirping}

He had a look of incredulousness mixed with a smattering of sympathy.

"Are you serious?" (he)

"Oh. Well, umm.."

"You DO know there are no 'Punk Rock' groups anymore, right? There hasn't been for a very, very long time".

"Yea, well, of course...whatever."

"It's ok, Jeane`. You haven't been in High School for a while".

Geez. Thanks. I guess I did not know.

A scary shiver went down my spine.

It's happening.

***

The third flaming red banner flew over my head this morning as I wished for a sturdier teasing comb for my bangs.

Seriously.

Is this how it happens?

Is the Membership Application simply a series of subconscience thoughts and inadvertant references to cliches that dissolved nearly twenty years ago?

Sure, I might not be wearing Jordache jeans, frosty blue eyeshadow or dabbing Jontue perfume behind my ears (yet), but there is enough of 'old school' bubbling to the surface to make me wonder if I have not already been accepted into the LIADC without being formally inducted.

***

Someday, Mr. and Mrs. Smith will be sitting in their Personal Space Orbit machines on what's left of the ancient New Jersey boardwalk, and a very old man and his old woman will hobble by (still not seeing the need for their own PSO's) and Mr. Smith will utter under his breath (into his headset) "That dame hit her prime in the late '80's". And Mrs. Smith will chuckle in agreement, happy that at least she is current."

The moral of the story?

Be careful what you chuckle at.

You just might turn into it.