Hippies, babies, back to school
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
“I feel like I’ve been in a wormhole,” I informed Husband-Head as we got ready for bed the other night.
“Wormy, wormy, wormy!” Husband-Head began singing at the top of his lungs, not even really listening to what I was saying.
“Seriously, I feel like I’ve been in some type of time warp this weekend,” I explained. “Everything was not where it was supposed to be.”
It began with a 40th hippie-themed birthday party we went to on Friday night.
“I dug out all my old tie-dyed stuff!” Husband-Head said as we got ready, laying out a slew of tank tops and T-shirts.
We decked ourselves out with me in a tie-dyed shirt over a long, white crocheted skirt and platform shoes and Husband-Head in shorts and a tie-dyed tank top and beads.
“I need flowers in my hair,” I decided. “No self-respecting hippie girl would ever leave the house without a wreath of flowers on her head.”
“Or a bong,” Husband-Head added.
“Hey, where are all the VW buses?” I asked as we pulled up and parked the car. “These are all mini-vans and SUVs.”
When we got to the party, it was hard to recognize anyone with all the curly Afro-style wigs, the long, flowing hair and headbands, shimmery outfits and peace sign earrings, necklaces and shirts.
“Hi, I’m Cloud Flower,” one girl introduced herself to me. “Hey, I really like your wreath. Flower Power, man.”
“Far out, you look pretty groovy yourself,” I replied, trying to get into the swing of things. “Nice to meet you. I’m Moon Beam.”
In the background, Steppenwolf blared from the speakers.
“Like a true nature child, we were born, born to be wild. We have climbed so high, never want to die. Born to be wild!”
The dude in the lime green polyester suit and curly black wig was really getting into it, dancing all by himself out on the deck.
I’m not really sure if the Jello shots were a ’60s drink, but they were definitely available in a rainbow of assorted colors.
“You don’t think they’ve slipped acid into any of this, do you?” I whispered to Husband-Head fearfully.
“Nah, this is a birthday party, not Woodstock,” he assured me.
I sat at a table, trying to talk to another hippie chick, but the green polyester suit guy had just cranked up the tunes.
“C’mon people now, smile on your brother. Everybody get together, try and love one another right now!” he sang along to the old Youngbloods song.
Except that there was nothing “young” about anyone at this party.
And unlike our younger days, when time was of no essence, we left the party about 10:30 p.m.
“I think I can go awhile without “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”, “Age of Aquarius” and the Grateful Dead,” I admitted to Husband-Head. “I feel like I just stepped out of Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco.”
But then I was shot to the other end of the spectrum when I attended a baby shower on Sunday afternoon.
“Most people our age are going to their friends’ children’s weddings who are in their mid-20s,” I said to Husband-Head as I got dressed. “This is a little bit weird.”
“Yeah, and it seems that we go to more funerals than weddings these days,” Husband-Head pointed out.
Not that we weren’t happy for our friends. They may have started a little later in life, but they now had two beautiful, healthy children. And I was happy to attend the shower.
Except that the nonalcoholic punch had little plastic ducks floating around in it.
But they weren’t the only ones defying time. Husband-Head and I were also in a time warp of our own.
Husband-Head is going back to college. He already has two college degrees but has decided he wants to study some more.
“There’s just something weird about picking up notebooks, pencils and Plavix in the same shopping trip for the same person,” I told him as we did some back-to-school shopping recently.
Welcome to my wormhole.
“Fried Rice” appears every Friday. Heidi Rice is a staff writer and columnist for the Post Independent. She lives in Rifle. Visit her website, http://www.heidirice.com for more columns and her book. Contact Heidi at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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