27 Aug Cool Kid
When I was a child, my quasi-adoptive parents were cool. Seriously, undeniably Fleetwood Mac and Rolling Stones cool. They partied with women who went braless in tops undone to the navel and dabbled in a variety of substances. My mom went through a nudism phase. My father posed stoned while dressed in his best friend’s police uniform. He hung a poster-sized version of the photo in the living room not far from his coffee table book of Marilyn Monroe nudes.
My childhood featured Monty Python, meals eaten with chopsticks out of lotus bowls, and shopping in grocery stores that had Health in their name. Booze was okay, sugar was evil. My dad once bought me a T-shirt of a green monster giving the finger. I wore it to school and was promptly sent home. Apparently, the symbolism was a bit much for grade five.
I had a free, amazing, and often confusing childhood.
I flirted with rebellion through half of my fourteenth year, then went straight-laced for the next decade or two.
My parents eventually traded in their hippiedom for board membership in the Pentecostal Church. Instead of embroidered raw silk shirts, my dad wore suit jackets. Instead of flowing, multi-patterned dresses or hip-hugging jeans with halter tops, my mom wore white.
Coolness still clung to them, but the aesthetics had changed.
So I did the only thing a self-respecting daughter of staunch churchgoers could do. I rebelled. In my forties, I took up wine and gluten-free beer drinking. I discovered the pleasure of swearing over a stubbed toe, and sometimes didn’t even need that excuse. Games nights with friends included racy after dark/adult versions of Telestrations and Exploding Kittens.
Sure the seventies and eighties belonged to my parents. But it’s 2018 and I’m the cool kid now.