It has been suggested, usually by my children, that I try to act more my age. What the hell does that mean? Er, I guess I mean, “Heavens to Betsy, where are my pedal pushers?”
By the way, if you Google “pedal pushers,” you will find images of capris. So I guess I’m not really that much out of style, although I refuse to wear long or longish pants in the middle of summer in St. George. My 60-year-old legs may be showing a bit of wear and tear, but they are good enough for shorts. Same goes for long sleeves. I’ve been waiting for six months to be able to bare my arms. After doing pull-ups all winter, they are as good as they are going to get, so I’m going for it, although it could be illegal in Utah.
I was a child of the ’60s, and we were a rebellious group. We listened to rock music, hung out at the mall, and wore miniskirts. Oh wait! I still do those things. Except the miniskirt is a skort, the mall is an outdoor shopping center, and instead of listening to The Beatles I listen to Pink and Katy Perry. Yep, you read it right. Listening to Pink while wearing pedal pushers and drinking wine, what could be better?
I like Pink because she is edgy. The Beatles were edgy with the flippant attitudes and haircuts and all. They sang about social inequity and relationship woes. Pink and Katy Perry sing about social inequity and relationship woes. Seriously, what can be more direct than “You’re an asshole but I love you,” or “I want to see your peacock”? Yep. Those ladies are direct. No trying to guess what they really mean, and they have pink hair. I think pink hair is fun, but I confess that haven’t tried it yet. I think pink hair might be illegal in Utah.
In the ’60s, we rode our bikes and walked everywhere. I can afford a car now, but cycling is still one of my favorite modes of transportation. Pedal pushers have been replaced by cycling shorts, jerseys, and helmets, which might be a good thing. The fixed-gear bicycle has been replaced by 21-speed, and bikes are faster and lighter. Still, I have always known how to ride a bike, with the exception of clipping my feet to the pedals, but eventually I was even able to master that, too. I’m pretty certain that I could annihilate my granddaughter on a bike at the moment, and I’m also pretty sure her mother wouldn’t let her go with me. Traffic and hills are pretty intimidating. My contemporaries and I still ride for fun and fitness. Some of us still ride to meet friends for lunch, even in Utah.
During a recent visit to my old neighborhood, my spouse, Mike, and I walked about four miles and even took the same route I walked 50 years ago from the now renovated junior high school. The old drug store has been replaced with restaurants, shops, and parks with water fountains. The day was warm and sunny, but neither of us suffered heatstroke or heart attack. Actually, I can’t think of anyone who died walking to and from school, and there weren’t any water fountains along the way. Sometimes there was snow and ice.
In the ’60s, we loved hula hoops and roller skates. I still love hula hoops and roller blades. Now, however, my friends look at me suspiciously if I suggest rollerblading or hula-hooping. I’ve seen that look, you inherit it from your kids who suspect dementia or worse. I’m not going into assisted living quietly.
One of my favorite TV commercials shows a son arriving late to his parents’ home. He tiptoes upstairs so he doesn’t disturb his “older” parents. However, we soon realize the parents aren’t home and are partying into the night on the beach with friends. There is loud music, drinking, volleyball, and dancing. We did that stuff in the ’60s and still do it, although I think at least three of the four activities are illegal in Utah.
Defying authority was fun, although none of us carried anything more lethal than a squirt gun and would never use it unless our lives were in jeopardy. If we did use it randomly, there would be hell to pay. My father had no qualms about embarrassing me in front of my friends. He always found me, despite my attempts to hide from him, and plucked me from the “den of sin,” depositing me mercilessly in the pink Chrysler New Yorker with the huge fins. I could run but not hide, and I didn’t even have a cell phone. My parents didn’t need a GPS to find me. They just knew where I was. My dad may have been part bloodhound.
Unfortunately, my dad is no longer around to look after me, but I still can’t get away with much. My kids and spouse would know, and so would Facebook, so I will continue to wear pedal pushers and act my age, just saying.
RELATED ARTICLES
Vanishing America: Were the good old days really that good?
What ever happened to Saturday morning TV?
