1968

Published on Gather, January 27, 2008 04:57 PM EST (Updated: January 28, 2008 01:52 PM EST)

Like Duckie, I also had a recent visit from a Ghost.

December 31, 1968.

• Bell-bottomed, black, bolero pants with wide suspender straps over an uncharacteristic,
  
  
  white, ruffled blouse my parents had given me for Christmas, worn only to protect their feelings.
• Black pumps with gold buckles, a poor choice for walking on ice.
• A tight girdle (laughable in retrospect, since I was 110 pounds with a flat stomach, no butt, and toothpick legs), because I needed something to hold my stockings up without having garters show through my pants.
• My favorite peach and brown bikini panties, even though I couldn't wear the matching bra under a white blouse and I didn't plan on letting anyone else see them, included only because they felt stylish
• Blue eye shadow, light pink--almost white--lipstick and copper rouge applied under my cheekbones. Black eyeliner curled up at the outside corners, with a thin line of liquid white above the pupils to create the Sophia Loren look.
• Gold wire earrings with snowflake charms, a gold barrette securing the top layers of side hair to the back of my head.
• Hard contact lenses that still felt like huge chunks of broken glass in my eyes.
• A pea coat, and Daddy's rabbit-lined leather gloves.
• And a smile that would last forty-five days.

Until then, my father had photographed every event in my life and laminated some of his favorites. But the camera didn't come out for my first, first date with the guy with whom I would later share many firsts, many of which I would not have wanted anyone to photograph. For some reason that I won't try to guess, Daddy did not preserve this night on film; the only picture is the one that my memory pulled out on December 31, 2007, when it all came back to me - the clothes, the music, and the emotions.

What caused that night to revisit thirty-nine years later? Forty makes sense as a milestone year. It might seem appropriate if I had been at a house party in the same neighborhood, worn similar clothes, spent the evening with his friends or family, mentioned his name, heard Diana Ross' "Love Child", seen a picture of him, or even thought his name. None of those qualifiers carried me into the time warp.

One minute I was sitting on the couch in my 2007 sweats, listening to a movie on television while I worked on a craft project. In an instant, I landed in the same calendar square thirty-nine years earlier.

Now, nearly a month later, I still feel something akin to the life-altering hangover of a dream that was too real. If he were still alive, I would expect him to call. As it is, I've started 2008 feeling young, and with a wild streak that has nowhere to go.

(I alternately blame and thank Time Heals and Lyndon for drudging up this bad boy, and Duckie for opening the door to let him back in.)