Yesterday.

We have a lot of terms for the word “yesterday”. Yesteryear, Days of Yore, Back in the Day. They sound so sad to me. They tauntingly suggest a better time, a moment you’d probably rather relive than the one you might be having right now, on the couch reading blogs, watching lame reruns of Seinfeld or whatever and wishing you could write a love song about what life was like when you were young. That’s nostalgia for ya. Bittersweet.

I can tell you yesterday I played catch in the street in summer with my brother and a nerf football, not just until dusk but after. We stayed up late to watch Saturday Night Live. The American hockey team beat the Russians in the 1980 Olympics. And the Apple logo spun around on the record player while Abbey Road, side 1 was on. We heard that Paul was dead, because he was barefoot on the crosswalk.

Yesterday I sneaked into R rated movies, stole menthol cigarettes from my dad, and loved cherry slurpees. I was awesome at Galaga. I wore striped Dolphins, went everywhere barefoot, and ate at The Apple Pan. I loved driving in my ’68 Cougar down Sunset, to the beach, windows down. No reason. A good high-five made me happy. My first concert was The Police Synchronicity tour, 1983. We drank strawberry margaritas out of a can and got kind of trampled.

Yesterday I didn’t know fear. The scary Russians were too far away. Gas shortages and droughts didn’t mean anything, Watergate. The Shah of Iran. Nope, nada. The scariest thing I had seen was The Exorcist when I was 12. And Charles Manson’s mug shot.

Yesterday wasn’t so long ago. My prom dress still fits. They used to film Charlie’s Angel’s on my block. I can still see my house on reruns. It looks totally different now. The new landscaping is hideous. I wonder what they did with my room.

I’m not sure if it’s yesterday or tomorrow that worries me. The Buddhists believe to be happy, you have to live in the moment. Not so easy. Someone once said “The past is a good place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there”. I don’t know. It ain’t so bad.

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Anne Clendening ♥

Anne Clendening is an L.A. chick, born and raised. She is a writer of creative nonfiction and other sordid tales of life, love and other L.A. adventures.

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