My daughter's dance company went to a competition last weekend. That means I did too, she not being of an age where she can ride to a big city, check into a hotel, and navigate the approximately six miles of skybridge between hotel and convention center without some assistance from a more chronologically-enhanced individual.
Speaking of chronological enhancement, I was old enough to feel the full horror of it when I saw on the schedule that one of the teams was doing a number to the Bangles' "Walk Like An Egyptian."
No offense whatsoever to Bangles fans. And in fact, I'm one of them--I still listen to their cover of "Hazy Shade of Winter," and I remember "Manic Monday" fondly. But "Walk Like an Egyptian" really did not work for me.
And wouldn't you know--when I was busy gelling my daughter's hair for their final number ("YOU'RE GETTING IT IN MY EAR!!"), one of the other girls wandered in from the ballroom with a funny look on her face.
"They were just playing the most awful song!" she said. "It had all this clanging and banging."
Yep, that sounded like our 80s culprit. I ran the title by her.
Her face lit up in recognition. With perverse enthusiasm she repeated, "It was awful!"
"Hey," I said, "I had to actually live through the time when that thing was a hit."
It was unexpectedly fun to say that. In this culture we're supposed to be jealous of younger people, particularly kids, because they've got it all ahead of them. But think of what they missed! They weren't there to live through "Walk Like an Egyptian"!
The girl, in fact, clearly started putting that together in her mind--imagining some fresher, smoother version of me ducking the airwaves that carried that song in a world where she didn't exist. And still might never have, her own mother's future not yet being set.
The past is safe for us because it's done. But perilous for them, because when you're so young you think somebody still might take you back.
"Longest four months of my life," I told her. "Go ask your mother what it was like."
