Ruby Tuesday

Memory is an iffy sort of thing. I’ve had friends with major disconnects in their lives; they had adult children but somehow seemed to think it was still July of 1967. July of 1967 was a great time, mind you. It was pure frolic. But it is very much gone.
Before you go snickering about how people in your grandparent’s generation are living in second adolescence, I’ll dispel any feelings of youthful superiority. Remember last week when you were reminiscing about the good old days of 2015? That’s right. In thirty years, you, too, will be an embarrassment to your children as you get caught doing some weird dance step that was justifiably forgotten before they were born.

To be honest, my father warned me about this. But in the flush of youth, I ignored the warning. He just smiled. I guess because he knew what was coming. He exercised constraint, knowing that in the future, he’d be watching me from the way beyond as I embarrassed myself in front of my children.

So take a bit of advice. Next time you wander into the living room and see Granpa dancing around and singing the words to ” Ruby Tuesday,” cut him some slack.