I was down this week. Melancholy. Nostalgic. Ruminative. Reminiscing on the late 80’s when Katrina and I were first married, living in Seattle, and the world was our oyster. It isn’t possible to return to those days…BUT it IS possible to build a playlist of albums from that time period, close my eyes tight and imagine I’m 21 years old again…which is exactly what I did.
Guns N’ Roses…Def Leppard…Van Halen…Metallica…Nirvana…oh how desperately I wish I could go back in time and listen to those so they could be on my playlist today so others might think I was, and am, cool. But I didn’t, and they’re not, and I’m not. Instead, my playlist is comprised of Paula Abdul, Gloria Estefan, Michael Bolton, Debbie Gibson, and Peter Cetera.
I’m not proud of this.
I blame my daughter, Atsede, for my wistful condition and behavior this past week. Over the holidays, she and I ran several times and it was heavenly. Not the running…that was awful. I’ve been running regularly for four years now and I still hate it and I am still slow…but at least Katrina bought me some really cool running gear. Except I don’t want them to get sweaty, so instead I wear miscolored, mis-sized, old sweat-pants and sweatshirts and look absolutely ridiculous. Though not because of the attire. More because I’m in my 50’s, unathletic and run like…well…like someone who listens to Paula Abdul, Gloria Estefan, Michael Bolton, Debbie Gibson and Peter Cetera.
And maybe a little because of the attire too. Sometimes I wear tight running leggings because I think (thought) they look (looked) cool. Or I did. Until my son-in-law Joseph saw me in them last week and nearly fell on the floor laughing. Indignantly, I explained, “they’re really comfortable!” To which Joseph, after wiping tears from his eyes, said, “I should hope so. Why else would you ever wear those!!!???”
That isn’t why I was down, however. Though I imagine that didn’t help, but not the primary reason. While running Atsede and I talked. Well…I talked…Atsede listened. I might hate to run, but I LOVE to talk!
One run in particular, I got caught up sharing stories from my Seattle years. Most Atsede hadn’t heard before…some I hadn’t thought about for years. And I realized, I don’t just miss the Seattle years and memories (not to mention movies, music, and the Supersonics)…I miss the person I was. I think 1989 Paul had a confidence that has since waned, an optimism that has abated, and…to be honest…I think I was more fun back then.
Unless you consider being in bed by 8:30 and watching Hallmark Mysteries fun, then I’m a maniac.
Granted, my (over) confidence did get me in trouble. I got hired by an auto-parts store as their accountant, promising them my college education had prepared me for the job. Turned out I was wrong…Accounting 101 from Bellevue Community College actually hadn’t given me the education or training they needed. Though I didn’t really feel it was necessarily fair that they had ridiculous expectations like preparing their monthly statements, processing payroll and maintaining their ledger. I did, with great pride, accurately total their accounts receivable for them...but they weren’t as impressed as I was.
I also convinced an upscale restaurant, since I had “experience” as a waiter, to give me a shot at serving tables. It turned out that waiting tables for a summer at a Montana 4B’s isn’t quite the same as waiting tables in a Seattle fine dining establishment. I lasted one night. One single night. This is absolutely true. My cover was blown when I dumped a glass of ice water down the back of a lady wearing a fancy fur coat.
For record’s sake, I did NOT, however, have the confidence to go back in there for my $48 paycheck. Let’s just say I deemed it an uncollectible receivable.
But, those incidents aside, I still like that Paul…maybe I just need to be a more refined, slightly more self-aware, 1989 Paul. If I was able to convince others I was an accountant and a polished waiter…maybe I can convince myself I’m young again.If I act young…I’ll be young. Right? So Tuesday night Katrina and I went to a basketball game. And once we got past our shock at how many people stay up past 8:00 p.m. these days…we had a good time.
We pretended we were on a date. Holding hands, we sashayed our way to the gate where I offered the attendant a $20 for our tickets. He studied Katrina and I for a second, smiled, and refusing my money, motioned us to head on in.Had our youthful exuberance affected him? Or…maybeeeee my self-confidence returning!?
“We don’t need to pay admission?” I clarified.
Still smiling, he patiently elaborated, “nope…senior citizens go in free.”
Annnnnnnnd in a flash 1989 Paul was gone.
After the game, Katrina and I listened to Cher’s, “If I Could Turn Back Time” all the way home.
Tags: