As promised or at least indicated in the title of this blog, this is a thought right out of the shower. Why is my brain stuck in the 90's? After my evening calorie busting walk, a depreciating naked bounce in the full length mirror and minutely inspecting every bump of cellulite on my body, I got into the shower and let my mind wander. As I was shampooing my hair I started singing Phoebe's shampoo song, the one from Friends; “Lather, rinse repeat, lather, rinse, repeEEt, ohhh, lather rinse repeeHEEET as needed”. My mom will have no idea what I'm talking about, but all of us that sported the “Rachel” will know that “The Rachel” refers to a haircut and will also be able to sing the shampoo song in their heads. My only problem is, my brain seems to have stopped functioning around the middle of the final season of Friends, and never restarted. My brain felt comfortable among the 90's and even into the very first years of the new century, but then it had had enough and decided to walk off and just enjoy the memories. My brain is sitting contentedly somewhere under a shady tree singing Smelly Cat and still crushing on Zach from Saved By The Bell.
It's embarrassing really. I remember as a kid, my mom and I would be going through the Piggly Wiggly and suddenly Frankie Avalon would come on and she would simply HAVE to get down with her bad self. We are talking full on dance moves involving twisting and mashing potatoes and riding ponies and God only knows what else right there in the store isle. Then she does this weird thing with her mouth when you know she's really getting her groove on; it's kind of a pursed lip, duck face thing. Mom's answer to the white man's overbite. I can just picture her and my dad now, in a club in the 70's. Bee Gee's singing, disco ball, flashing lights and dad boogy woogying and biting his lower lip and mom jiving with the really tight duck lips. I'm sure they were adorable. But back to the grocery store... They would eventually have to interrupt the music to announce “clean up in isle four” because in isle four, mom would still be twisting away and I would have shredded my own body into a million pieces rather than deliberately stand there in the isle and let her ruin my life forever. And while I was gnawing my own arm off, trying to make this stop, I would be thinking over and over again “I will NOT do this to my children. I will LOVE them. I will NOT do this to them”.
Well, I was almost right. I have never done the Mashed Potato in any isle of any store. I have however walked like an Egyptian and done the Macarena. But my point is, I remember also solemnly vowing to myself that I would not be one of 'those parents' who couldn't even stay 'with it'. I would listen to rap when I was 83 if that was the cool thing to do. And I almost did it. In fact, one of my three kids still thinks I'm pretty cool and she's a junior in high school.
So that means I've done well, right? Nope. Because no matter how many times I mumble along to songs on the radio, I will always secretly wish it was being performed by Nirvana and I will never be able to understand why they have replaced family sitcoms with reality TV. When I'm in my car and Eminem comes on the radio – yes I still listen to a plain ol' radio in my car, it isn't satellite or anything cool, but when Eminem comes on I'm like “You better mhvmnb yewrsft hmm da MUSIC, you better never let hibn goned, you've only goverone shevt” or something equally incoherent. Whereas I can tell you exactly, word for word all of the things I am too sexy for, including Milan, Japan, my pussy cat, this hat, my love and this song. I know all of the things Meatloaf will do, even though he Won't do That. I have even made my achy breaky heart understand. And when I walk down the store isle with my daughter in tow and one of today's top 40 songs comes on I try not to dance (much) to it because I am aware that I look like a flamingo on Ritalin. (Not my own phrase, but an accurate description of what is going on). Maybe for me, a more accurate description would be “I look like Elaine dancing”, because I clearly remember Seinfeld and any time Elaine danced, it made my day. And while I am buying box sets of the Simpsons and MacGyver, the rest of the world is watching Netflix originals and keeping up with the buck wild pregnant teen moms next door to the bachelor dynasty.
I really meant to keep up though. I meant to stay with it. To know what was up or going down. I even ended up with some peeps and they have nothing to do with marshmallow Easter candy. I had managed to go from living in a house to having a crib and I made peace with being called Phat. But around the time of Apple Bottom jeans and boots with the fur, my brain decamped. I now have no idea what is going on anywhere around me. I don't know the name of that actress in The Hunger Games, I have no idea what my milkshake is or how to prevent it from bringing boys to the yard; in fact, I'm almost certain that's something you should have a doctor take a look at. I honestly have no idea if poppin' tags means buying something or changing the price tags around on things or what it means, really, and I haven't got a clue why mustaches or bacon or zombies are cool.
So if you see me wandering around, just give me some room. I'm probably imagining I'm bubble boy running from the soup Nazi.