Why must I start this post with a PGO?
(For those not in the know, PGO was coined by my father in the late 1980s perhaps as a result of living in a house with too many teenagers or "almost" teenagers or "just were" teenagers. It stands for Penetrating Glimpse into the Obvious and its purpose is to call out stupid comments by people in a kind and comical way. My dad is a very kind person.)
Thanksgiving is supposed to be a day we give thanks, though I think I should probably focus on giving thanks on days that do not have pie or multiple pies. I'll call it giving thanks on pie-free days. Who wants to join me?
Thanksgiving is not a joke. I am thankful for all sorts of things. I swear on pie that I am. My life is full of lovely people--big and small, kick-ass music, needling teenagers, art and more art. Science. Technology, even.
I am also thankful for nostalgia. Grab wastebasket. Stop reading. I warned you...
Here's one reminiscence for which I am particularly thankful on this Thanksgiving Day, 2012:
This past Sunday I took my six-year-old daughter and my nine-year-old son to RMHS's production of Footloose.
There are a couple of things that you need to know about my relationship with Footloose in order to fully understand the nostalgia with which I approach this experience.
I was 13 when the movie starring Kevin Bacon came out. Having spent a lot of time with high school freshmen lately, I understand the terrible movie infatuations of freshmen.
Not only was I 13, but I was also growing up in Salt Lake City, Utah where dancing was allowed, but smoking, drinking and having sex were forbidden (at least in my house). So when Kevin Bacon performed his sizzling, beer-bottle throwing, smoke-blowing gymnastics routine (I just learned today that he had three stunt doubles--oh--the horror!) and later, the town minister changed his views about dancing, I was smitten.
See for yourself. He
And surprise, surprise. There's a little piece of Utah history wrapped up in Footloose. Parts of the movie were filmed in Utah, specifically that dance scene. Geneva Steel, baby. Lehi Roller Mills, baby. Somewhere in Utah, baby. Give me your best high-pitched, enthusiastic 13-year-old girl scream.
Footloose reminds me of a lot of beautiful things. Like slow dancing (They maybe should've outlawed this at East High School dances in the 80s), pimples, Kenny Loggins and more Kenny Loggins.
On this Thanksgiving Day, 2012, I am thankful for my memories of Footloose and the fact that my children, though somewhat confused by the story line (four days later Thea is still trying to tell me what it was about), sat next to their misty-eyed, reminiscent mother for nearly three hours, only complaining that the musical was too long but once.
Bless their hearts sweet mother of Jesus.
Thank you, world, for giving me the gift of motherhood and thank you, kids, for tolerating me as your mother. I wish that I could assure you that things like Footloose and misty eyes, and bad singing didn't have to be a part of my job as your mother. You are probably wishing that Spotify and YouTube were never invented because of what people like me do with this information.
I am sorry. No. I am not sorry. I am thankful. Today is Thanksgiving.
I am thankful for the unconditional love of my children. Yes, Aidan, I know that this is embarrassing, this public outcry of love and thankfulness and that it's somehow connected to some of the lamest music you've ever heard. But I'm still not sorry--only thankful.
I complain sometimes (ok, a lot) and I'm grumpy sometimes (ok, a lot), but holy crap do I love my family--my husband, my children and my cats. I wicked love you.
I also love my extended family and my Rhumb Line family and family by association or disassociation.
Thank you, Footloose, for bringing it home.
