My heart melted with so much nostalgic warmth that my feet couldn’t press on at their naturally crazy zippy pace for a quarter of a minute as The Beatles voice echoed from my big headphones singing: “And then while I’m away, I’ll write home every day. And I’ll send all my loving to you.”
I happen to have been a Beatles fan for too long now, and to my shame, I’d only watched A Hard Day’s Night yesterday…and I just fell in love with it. And even though this song, All My Loving, didn’t come up on the official A Hard Day’s Night album which I’d already listened to and loved long before I watched the movie, it got stuck in my worried head all night and was the first thing to surface on my a tad less worried head as I woke up today.
It’s a beautiful sunny morning, a bit chilly, but not the kind of chill a cold-blooded friolera like myself would not enjoy. I play the song over and over and over and every time they promise they’ll write home everyday, my heart skips a beat and I have this urge to cry happy tears. You know this weird bittersweet feeling when you wanna laugh and cry, you’re hopeful and sorrowful, when you’re not at ease and you feel like you want something and yet have that uncanny feeling of satisfaction all at once? It’s that feeling that gets you to that place where you’re in peace with life, humanity, and the Earth. For as long as All My Loving played, I got to be in this moment of peace and just like that, all the anxiety, the uncertainty, the pain, it just all went away.
And if you ask me why I think a song that came out decades before I was even a possibility could get me this overwhelmingly, there’s always the logical answer that it’s simply a happy song and if you couple it with that fact that my subconscious associated it with the movie I’d watched yesterday as it played to a scene where the guys were having fun and dancing and all (a happy scene in brief), it makes perfect sense. But if wanna know what I really think, like really really think, it would be because I was simply born in the wrong era!
You’ll be surprised at the number of times I’ve been told that I should’ve lived in the 60s or the 50s. Some even went too far to tell me that I’d have been way better off if I’d lived in the 30s. Well, as for my own personal preference, I’ve always wanted to be an 80s kid so I can have my early twenties in the beautiful 90s. I mean, really, what’s not to love about the 90s? If you think about it, the 90s are the chronological version of “The Best of Both Worlds”. We had modern technology, computers, phones, internet but it hadn’t yet grown into that world/mind-dominating monster that it is nowadays. We had pop music with all the lame choreography, the matching boy-band outfit but we also had Lionel Richie, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson and even Henry Connick Jr. who brought a breezy sense of the 50s to Nora Ephron’s movies (which I’m a big swooning fan of by the way). And, some people still wrote letters…it’s so sad that no one writes letters anymore. You know there’s this picture that’s been going around Facebook of a coffee shop front where the owner put up a board that reads: “No Wi-Fi. Talk to each other. Call your mom. Pretend it’s 1993. Live!”, just sums it all up.
But even though I go around giving this lecture about how beautiful the 90s were almost all the time, people still believe I would’ve fit somewhere three decades earlier.
Well, between you and me, I love the 60s. They are like my second favorite decade after the 90s: life was simpler, people were friendlier and The Beatles were alive (I mean the four of them), young, super cute and handsome, oh, not to mention that I could’ve dressed like Audrey Hepburn; super awesome! Yeah, it would’ve been great if I’d lived in the 60s…but no, wait a minute! If I’d lived in the 60s, like if I was my age in the year 1967, there is a big chance I would’ve been my grandmother. I mean, I would’ve been a grandmother by now, probably to a kid my age. So, here’s the question, do you think I would’ve enjoyed it? Having a miserably undetermined, uncertain, fidgeting grandkid like me? Okay, what about this other question: on a scale 1-10, how likely is it that our grandparents focused on living life to the fullest sixties style rather than passing on any cosmic philosophical dilemmas to our parents or even letting them on on the questions that matter in life; the thing that had our parents turn out to become as pragmatic, the thing that has yielded this huge gap between their generation and ours? And if our grandparents hadn’t passed any of those dilemmas on to our parents and our parents didn’t in turn pass anything to us, where the heck did we get all those cosmic questions, philosophical paradoxes and intellectual/ emotional pursuits that are literally turning our confused heads into swollen oranges?!
I got carried away, didn’t I?