Bell Bottoms, Tattoos and the Rocky...

BELL BOTTOMS, TATTOOS and THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW
by Sharon Denning


I moved a couple of weekends ago. Not a huge event as moving goes,

considering all of my furniture is nestled in a luxury, air-conditioned, upstairs

storage unit back in Nevada. The description of my belonging’s temporary home is

based on the price I’m paying for its monthly rent. Come to think of it, I’m paying

more to keep my furniture cool and safe, (surveillance cameras, coded gates, and

security guards), during the scorching Vegas summer, than I did for my first

apartment in Newport Beach a few years ago. Imagine that. Two roommates and I

split the rent on a two bedroom-furnished apartment, 5 miles from the ocean, for

$195 per month, utilities included. Okay, fine. It was more than just a few years

ago. To be exact it was, two kids, four grandchildren, six different hair colors, five

changes of career, Jerry Garcia’s dying, and platform shoes coming full circle, ago.

So here I am, all these years later, revisiting the concept of sharing a space. I

have a roommate. It’s quite different this time around. She is all of twenty years

old and I am, well, the age in which I believed, back when I was twenty, people had

one foot in the door of the nearest nursing home. Thank goodness “fifty” is the

new “thirty five.” It gives me that extra fifteen-year cushion before my medium rare,

rib eye steak becomes strained baby food. When I remind myself what life was like

back in the 1970's it helps to stay open minded and understanding in reaching a

balance with my new living arrangement.

Almost four decades ago, volume control had no boundaries when it came to

Jimmi Hendricks or Janice Joplan screaming through an eight-track cartridge

player. An adapter for a garden hose was a household item, as we attached the

long, green tubing to a kitchen faucet in order to fill up the beds. Watergate

somehow seemed important, but took a back seat to finding the latest hairdo

magazine showing exactly how to get the cut to look like Farrah. Andy Warhol was

making millions painting cans of Campbell’s Tomato Soup. We were eating tomato

soup, and slapping peanut butter on anything that would hold the weight. Days

were spent-bikini clad, playing volley ball on the beach; nights were consumed

waiting tables at Bob’s Big Boy for $1.15 per hour plus tips, and all the cheesecake

we could sneak into the break room to eat.

And on our nights off, there were the guys, lots of them, struttin’ their stuff in the

most suave’ polyester three piece leisure suits, inspired by a “must see” box office

hit, Saturday Night Fever. A young man named John Travolta seemed to have a

knack for thrusting the most perfect body parts, in the most perfect sync to a new

beat called, disco. The clubs were filled with gold chains, sweat, and strobe lights,

making for an unforgettable era in which to party.

Gloria Steinem impacted the country through her feminist movement of the 60's

paving the way for her groundbreaking Ms. Magazine, first published in 1972. She

gave us permission as young women to experience life outside of the kitchen,

without wearing an apron over our clothing. She in fact gave us permission to wear

an apron, and hold a Master’s degree, without any clothing at all. Ms. Steinem

contributed to four generations of guilt-free women, based in intellect, still capable

of raising healthy, happy families.

So here I am, having come full circle myself. I once again have a roommate.

She is twenty and I am fifty-three. I’m happy to learn things are much the same.

That life does not shrivel up and die, but redefines and redesigns until what was old

becomes new all over again. That bell bottoms, and tattoos, and the Rocky Horror

Picture Show, never went away, they merely awakened, following a well-deserved

slumber. I am grateful for this moment in time, seemingly allowing for glimpses of

my youth to gather hope. Hope for the future of a new generation’s journey into all

the different phases of adulthood. And hope that grace and spirit remain constant

for those of us stepping into the second half of life. I humbly accept this personal

awakening revealing we are far more alike, than we will ever be different . . .