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on the front page geek syndrome |
In the early 1970’s, school-assignments
took a far back seat to my obsession with Carol King and Crosby, Stills,
Nash & Young. Sitting in the rear of Mr. Erhman’s Social Studies
class merely provided a thrice-weekly opportunity to review my wardrobe
while attempting to look interested in the course work. My hair was matted
and the oversized farmer’s overalls I sported were bleached to a
perfect, stone-washed indigo. My expression was sullen, but the faces
of my friends mirrored my own. Why? Because underneath our artificial
masks-of-boredom lied a desperate yearning to be thought, ultimately,
cool.
My three at-home teens have begun asking questions and I’m not certain
that their interest in my personal history is entirely sincere. One wanted
to know what I wore to my best friend’s Sweet Sixteen party, but
when I described the green hot-pants outfit with a white plastic star
across the bosom, she fell to the floor laughing. Perhaps I’m overly
sensitive, but I didn’t find the reaction particularly loving.
My oldest son, who after twelve years of yeshiva education aspires to
be a nightclub D.J., asked me about the dances of the period. Happily,
I reenacted some old classics including the Jerk, Mashed Potato, Pony,
African Twist and Hitchhike. I provided evidence with black & white
photos taken in the Borscht Belt’s “Shawanga Lodge’
after I won the Chubby Checkers Twist Marathon, circa 1964.
How I morphed into one of those “I’ll never be like that”
adults is beyond my ken. No, I don’t caution my children about poking
out the eyes of strangers with umbrellas, but that is because we can’t
remember where we put the umbrellas. I DO repeat oft-stated warnings such
as, “Where’s your hat? How many times do I have to tell you
that eighty-percent of your body heat escapes through the top of your
head?”
Recently I was inducted into the Geek Hall of Fame. This honor was bestowed
upon me based on two monumental achievements.
First, I lug a red-plaid shopping cart with me wherever I go. (Once I
brought it on a dinner date but that was because I hadn’t gone home
between work and play. For some reason, the relationship didn’t
flourish…) How else can I pop into the shuk at whim? I mean, why
schlep backbreaking bags of bargain bananas and soup bones when you can
wheel them in style? My twelve-year-old daughter tossed back her Avril
Lavigne hair-do and calmly explained to me that it was better to shop
at the expensive local grocery than announce to the world that I’m
a total dweeb. “What if someone from my school saw you, Mom? I’d
die!” I explained with equal patience that if someone from her school
was in the shuk it was probably because she’s already ‘cool’
and, more likely, is doing a mitzvah for her mother. Exasperated eye rolling
was the only reaction to my brilliant deduction.
The other reason I have tenure in ‘The Losers Club’ is because,
prudently, I purchased a monthly bus pass (chofshi chodshi) rather than
the monetarily foolish individual rides. It only took ten years to find
the nerve – and Hebrew – to actually speak with a bus driver
and make the request. Like a real Israeli!
“You’re NOT going to put it in one of those little green plastic
covers, are you?” asks a frightened fifteen-year-old.
“You bet I am,” I retort, tightening the strap around my waist
enhancing fanny pack, worn only by geriatric swingers at the local senior-center.
The bus pass wouldn’t be so bad, they claim, if I didn’t smile
every time I flashed it. It’s true. With unbridled enthusiasm, I
look like an inebriated Jimmy Carter, flashing my pearly-whites to anyone
who will pause to look at my chofshi chodshi. Imagine my disappointment
as the driver avoids eye contact but, instead, flares his nostrils while
stifling a yawn.
Joan Baez has cut her hair and allowed it go silver and I think she’s
stunning. But Cher looks silly. I firmly believe that Mick Jagger is dying
to play shuffleboard on a Carnival Cruise but can’t get off of the
‘coolness’ merry-go-round. Society won’t let him.
Me? I laugh in the face of “hipster convention.” Having increased
my fiber intake, I still croon along with Green Day and Kelly Clarkson.
And just as my parents were hopeless and humiliating, it is now my turn
to be a source of mortification for my own ungrateful offspring.
The timeworn adage of “What-Goes-Around-Comes-Around” is as
true as the hackneyed “Age is Just a Number.”
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