The Best of Times

Remember the good old days? Your first car, your first love, your first real job? The days when you were part of a posse? When every weekend was spent at the movies and you couldn’t wait for the new (insert artist here) album? When you got by on three hours of sleep because life was so fresh and vibrant that sleep was an inconvenience?

I came of age in the 1980s. That’s when I hooked up with Ter, we got our own place, and I got my first loan to buy Blue Thunder. I spent one summer in Europe. I discovered Sting and Duran Duran. I had a good government job and a kinda sorta boyfriend (and that’s the last you’ll hear of that, ever). I dabbled with vampires and wrote a fictional band biography because there was no reason not to. I not only ran with the cool crowd, I was one of the executive. So many good memories were born in those years. Some painful ones, too, but whatever. For me, the 80s were all about growing up and growing out, leaving kidhood behind and becoming an adult. I spent them figuring out who I was, and I had so much fun doing it that I still perceive the 80s through rosy lenses, as expertly polished as the slickest Bryan Ferry tune.

So imagine the surprise when I saw a recent documentary about the state of the world during my glory days. The Falkland War. The cold war. The drought in Ethiopia. Reaganomics. The threatened rainforest. AIDS. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. The Challenger explosion. Ted Bundy.

I was living la vida loca and the world was in chaos.

“Surprise” isn’t the right word. I knew about these things on a peripheral level, but they didn’t affect me at the time. Despite the world going crazy around me, those years remain among the happiest of my entire life. Oblivious years? Self-absorbed years? Or just years spent in pursuit of myself, the shaping of the woman I was destined to become?

My point? Those times were not the best because of what was happening around me. They were the best because of what was happening within me. Consider the best years of your life. Think about what happened to make them so, then look outward to what the world was going through at the same time. I bet it was as nutty, as tumultuous and uncertain and just plain scary, as it is now. If so, then I suggest that the “good old days” we old folks long for had little to do with the state of the world and everything to do with where we were as individuals. The 1980s were not as golden as I’ve always believed. Neither were the 50s, 60s, or 70s, though I’m sure lots of people remember them as fondly.

My second favourite Styx song is called TheBest of Times. I heard it on the oldies (!!) station a few days ago, and I smiled because the sentiment is as relevant today as it was thirtysome years ago:

The headlines read these are the worst of times

I do believe it’s true

I feel so helpless, like a boat against the tide

I wish the summer winds could bring back paradise

But I know, when the world turns upside down

Baby I know, you’ll always be around

The best of times

Are when I’m alone with you

Some rain, some shine

We’ll make this a world for two

Those memories of yesterday will last a lifetime

We’ll take the best, forget the rest, and someday we’ll find

These are the best of times

With love,

Pour No Sugar on Me

I wrote not a word on the weekend. I slept a lot, though. Sugar fuzz. I indulged in such dietary naughtiness the day before my writing day that the best I could do on Sunday morning was lie on the sofa and listen to David Usher. I fell asleep to Bryan Ferry in the afternoon.

The day wasn’t a total waste, however. I learned something that I’ve always known but consistently deny in the face of immediate gratification: sugar is bad for creativity. I proved it to myself yet again because I started to pull out of the fog at lunchtime, then I downed a whole can of San Pellegrino grapefruit soda and promptly had to take a long nap. The pop wasn’t even that good – it tasted like I was drinking marmalade. Worse, it started me second-guessing about my writing. Stuck in a chemical funk, my will to create actually dissolved, so I let it go for the day in hope of a sunnier outlook when I finally emerged from the mire.

It took a full 24 hours. The socked-in sense lingered well into my Monday; it began to lift yesterday evening and this morning I woke up clear-headed and hopeful again. Feeling more like writer than a fraud and thank the gods for that turn of mind. I brought the Gatsby soundtrack to work, which is proving to be a horrible distraction but I will persist because I need the infusion to get me through the worst day of my week. I’m off on Friday, with no commitments beyond cramming three episodes of The Newsroom before season 2 premieres on Sunday, so I’ll be brewing more Gold Rush and seeing if I can make something of a story that, on the weekend, I feared was beyond my capability to write.

My mission until then is to steer clear of the white stuff.