In about 1965, there was a moment when I stopped being a widdle kid, when I was more like a tweenie, but not quite, sort of stuck in the in-between of growing up.
Last week, some 4 1/2 decades later, it was deja vu all over all over again.
I found myself stuck between ages – this time between Middle Age and Oldieville.
It happened the exact moment when my face was just inches away from a gyrating grandmother’s buttooskies, with only a set of white panties keeping me from going blind.
Lawsy Lawsy Lawsy…
I blame my son the musician for this madness.
One of his bands is the Plymouth Furys, who sing Rock’n’Roll songs suitable for serious dancing. Songs like Jailhouse Rock and Rock Around the Clock.
As you know, the GM Finance and I always try to support junior, so we went to his last gig at a Community Center. We were expecting the typical small, reserved Kiwi crowd.
We didn’t expect a hall jammed to the rafters with super Rock’n’Rollers, many of whom probably lost their virginity during World War II.
The GM Finance and I were amongst the youngest people in the place. And we do not dance. Sure, we took lessons at one point for a wedding.
But, what with the GM Finance’s anti-rhythm Chinese DNA, and my post-football knees and hook for a left hand, it was pretty much a train wreck.
So we sat at the band’s table, right near the stage. There we could watch both bands and, if I turned to my left, I could watch the dancers blast by, juking and jiving, whirling and twirling right by our table.
That’s when I had that deju vu all over again moment, that feeling of being in a transition from one age group to another. This time it was a terribly debilitating feeling.
Let’s say you’re a 55-year-old bloke, enjoying the jerky-jivey, and very shapely, back-side of a rock’n’roll dancing girl coming your way. To her left, you spot an even hotter pony-tailed gurl dancer with legs that go up to “here” AND lacy red undies!
Then they both spin around to face you. And you feel horribly unclean.
Because you have been ogling your second grade English Teacher and one of the lunch ladies from junior high.
The Twilight Zone
In this new dimension, you discover that these dancers with old lady faces and rock’n’roll gurly bits are closer in age to you than you are to the pretty girls you still ogle at the mall, the ones who think you are a pensioner.
Which is about as sad as it gets, people.
Well, no, the SADDEST bit is back on the dance floor, when you turn to have one final look at the dancers.
You see an amazing couple approaching. The man is maybe 80 and looks very much like your Uncle Kenneth. He’s a bit hunchbacked, and his wife is somewhat freeze-dried, but, man, can they dance: twirling and gliding effortless over the dance floor, moving as one, because they have been dancing together for 60 years.
This in itself is not sad. In fact it brings a smile to your face. You even turn to make an “Uncle Kenneth” comment to the GM Finance.
And then you turn back to that nightmare image that will not leave your head.
Granny. Whirling. Shot backwards between grampaw’s legs. Lifting off the ground. So her skirt floats in the air. And there, literally inches from your face, are granny’s white panties, skin tight on her very taunt bottom.
There are no words.
Well maybe one.
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