As I mentioned on Saturday evening, I spent most of that day helping out at a Sons of Confederate Veterans booth at the Heart of Virginia Festival in Farmville.
After several hours of watching all the passersby (and talking to some of them), I suddenly realized that I was older than anyone else I saw. Yes, there were a few people in my age group, and a very few who were even older, but for all practical purposes, I was watching a parade of people who were younger than I.
I could look at all the men and boys and think, “I remember when I was that age.” Some of them, especially the ones with green hair and piercings and multiple tattoos, were hard to identify with. But with many of them, it was possible to put myself in their shoes, and imagine doing what they were doing. Especially if they were middle-aged or older.
As for the females — well, the ones who were young and comely would have been objects of my libidinous attentions fifty years ago. But now, from the vantage point of an old man who was married for forty years and then widowed for five, they’re just eye candy — lovely to look upon, but no longer provoking desperate, overwhelming lust. It’s like looking at a garden of beautiful, carefully-tended flowers. Poignant, because the blossoms must soon fade and succumb to the inevitable frost.
And, truth be told, only a small portion of those young females would actually fall into the “gorgeous flower” category. A depressingly large percentage of them were quite obese, with parti-colored chopped-off hair and tattoos all over. I’m too old to find that sort of thing attractive, no matter how hard I try. Besides, too many of them were paired up with each other and engaged in extravagant public displays of affection. So to heck with ’em.
When I was a kid, the only people who sported tattoos were men who had been in prison or the military. Outside of the circus, a tattooed woman was all but unheard of. When the first tattoos began to appear on women 35 or 40 years ago, the wearers of them were generally lower-class, or from a bohemian subculture. Over the next two decades the fad gradually moved up the class hierarchy, and they are now commonplace. For the last quarter-century I’ve tried to get used to them, but I just can’t manage to do it. Every time I see a tattooed woman I experience an involuntary jolt of distaste. I’m just too old — there’s nothing I can do about it.
However, although they were a minority, a surprisingly large number of those lovely young ladies in Farmville were without visible tattoos, which I found encouraging. Their sartorial tastes weren’t always the most refined, but some of them were dressed quite appropriately, with no bra straps exposed or butt cheeks showing, and no navel jewelry. So, from the point of view of a hidebound traditionalist such as myself, all is not lost.
And then there were the smart phones, which were all but ubiquitous, among both women and men. When it comes to phones, I’m an outsider looking in. I have a basic understanding of how they work, and have seen them often enough, but I don’t understand the deep immersion in them that so many people seem to have. On Saturday I saw lot of people walking down the street between the rows of booths, looking neither left nor right, just staring into their phones. There must me something really important and/or compelling on those little screens to keep them focused so tightly on them.
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