Welcome to my world. I’ve never left the ’60s. That was the decade of free love, Peter Max, Woodstock, Haight-Ashbury, and the rise of the Volkswagen Beetle. I loved my miniskirts and tight hip hugger bellbottoms. In the ‘60s, I had a great body too, and I looked hot in those miniskirts and hip huggers. I drove my parents crazy. I played antiwar songs by Country Joe and the Fish on my 8 track tape player, and my parents never understood Bob Dylan’s song about changing times. My father said, “Times are changing? To what? All that boy needs is a job and a haircut!”
I embarrass my kids. “Oh my God, Mother. Must you play your Mamas and Papas CD every time we’re in the car with our friends?” They really hate the green paisleys jeans I wear every time we’re out running errands. No, they aren’t hip huggers. I gave those up after childbirth. The only time my children acknowledged me in public is when they want money to go to the mall.
I wonder what it was like being a nurse in the ‘60s. Check out the tight white nursing uniforms. There was hardly enough wiggle room in them to bend over while making a bed. I remember hearing stories about nurses following doctors as they made rounds. A nurse carried a stack of heavy charts as she scampered behind the doctor. And to add insult to injury, nurses were expected to surrender their seat at the nurses station when a doctor entered the room. I would have been fired on the spot. “Hey, my feet hurt after running behind you all day. Get your own damn chair! And while you’re at it, make your own coffee.”
Governor Dean, I await your reentry into the ‘60s. Just don’t ask me to work at a hospital.