Officially Old

Flipping through an American Girl catalog that was lying on the table, I spotted a new doll in the historical series–Julie Albright, the ’70s girl.

In 1974, she’s about 8 or 9 years old. A Brady Bunch poster is taped inside her locker.

Hey, wait a minute. I’m a ’70s American girl!

I thought it was cool that Molly was almost exactly the same age as my mother, dealing with the ups and downs of living through WWII.

Somehow it’s not so cool now that I’m almost exactly the same age as an historical American Girl.

They show her in a crinkle-gauze peasant blouse and bell-bottom jeans, platform sandals, a groovy braided leather belt and crocheted hat. So familiar. *Sigh*

I wasn’t a very hip nine-year-old–more concerned with comfort than style–but I know I wore bell-bottom pants–I just saw an old photo of myself at Mom and Dad’s house on Christmas Day confirming that fact. And Grandma crocheted hats and shawls exactly like that for me. I remember clomping around in a stout pair of clogs, and ironing onto my jeans patches in happy designs and colors like peace signs and rainbows.

The 1970s gave us Presidents Nixon, Ford, and Carter, economic recession, the ‘76 bicentennial, as well as disco, lava lamps, mood rings, the Rubik’s cube, T-shirts with stupid sayings on them (I had a green one with an apple eaten down to its core that read, “I’m rotten to the core” and two much-loved Peanuts sweatshirts passed down from my brother than I wore until they were faded and ripped).  We were introduced to Star Wars, Jaws, and Rocky; Happy Days, All in the Family and Sesame Street. And I tried my hand at “Pong” and “Space Invaders.”

I guess it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I should simply accept the fact that my childhood is officially part of history.

And I can enjoy knowing that my kids all agree that her room is funky. Mine wasn’t funky at all, but that era of history gave us bright colors and beads. And macrame.

And for Christmas, Julie gets a trendy Barbie hair styling head. I won one of those in a Halloween coloring contest. If they find out, my girls will want me to dig it out. Somehow I doubt if Barbie’s hair aged well. It has, after all, been a few decades, and she was probably stored in my parents’ attic, heated and cooled repeatedly, season after season, since 1975.

It’s strange, but I have this irresistible urge to play “Life.” If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll dig it out. I’m pretty sure it’s upstairs in the same box as my vintage Rubik’s cube. And a couple of mood rings.