I know that it's common knowledge that Thursday is throwback day or #tbt, but since those unofficial rules were started by Instagram, I'm going to stick it to the man and go all throwback on Tuesday.
My defiance to Instagram mainly stems from the fact that they shut down my account for adding my URL to my blog in my profile after accidentally hash tagging my blog name on an individual picture. POOF. Just like that all of my retro filtered memories are gone. Thank goodness for my Sticky Grams on my fridge to commemorate that those adorable moments actually happened. Creators of Instagram, be lucky that you so hidden behind a communication barrier of incorrect email addresses and secret servicemen (I mean it these people are impossible to contact, well played Instagram, Well played.) otherwise I would have punched them in the kisser. Or at least I wanted to I mean all of those pictures.
All drama aside, I do have those pictures saved somewhere on my computer. I guess it;s just another lesson learned; backup everything, and store them in files that you remember. I may be an adult, but I still tend to get schooled sometimes. That's life I guess.
So anyway, as I spend my days trying to raise my boys to the best of my ability, I tend to go back to the way I was raised, and think about what has made me the person I am today.
I look back at my childhood with fond and funny memories, because as I have said before...My parents were crazy. Good crazy. But crazy, non-the-less.
Let's just cut to the chase.
I grew up in Graceland.
Or at least my mother's multiple cureo cabinet filled version.
My mom was and is a die hard Elvis fan.
To make matters worse, I was born on Priscilla Presley's birthday. The hospital played Elvis music over the loud speaker, and I was brought into the world like a little "chunka chunka burning love". And boy did they "Love me tender". Do you like the Elvis puns? I could go all day. I'm not even sure that not even Elvis' daughter , Lisa Marie's birthday included so much Elvis. But that's how my family rolled. Die hard fans. 24/7.
My mom was the collector, while my dad was just a huge fan of music in general, and although he had seen Elvis multiple times in concert and said "that it was the best show he'd ever seen"... most of his time was spent appeasing my mom, and gifting her quirky Elvis items to add to the growing collection.
In fact, the only time I have ever been grounded in my life was when I got angry at my mom and called Elvis stupid, and then immediately yelled that "Elvis was dead".
But you know what? Elvis isn't dead. Elvis is alive and well in Ohio. At my mom's house. Still, To this day.
Instead of listening to the newest hippest tunes on the radio like TLC, Mariah Carey, and Keith Sweat (actually I'm glad that I never got into Keith Sweat. EW.). My childhood was spent listening to Elvis, and going to see Elvis impersonators live in concert. Imagine a 7 year old being serenaded in front of an audience by a fat old man in a jumpsuit, sweating all over. These impersonators would then give me their sweaty scarf (as Elvis would have) as an endearing souvenir, while middle aged women, would hoot and holler and swoon with their menopausal hot flashes in full swing.
The thought makes me cringe now, mostly because the impersonators would almost always choose the white jumpsuit (why oh why wouldn't they dress up as the young, hot, Elvis ) and we all know what happens when white gets wet and sweaty. See through and scarred for life. That's what happens. adios naivety.
But as bizarre and uncomfortable as those serenades (yes, they happened more than once, apparently serenading the only kid in the audience got the "Elvis" mad old lady points) were, I'm glad for them. Yes they are non-traditional childhood memories, but you know what?
I'm so thankful for them.
Because without those awkward moments of being the center of attention, I wouldn't have ever had the confidence to dance on a stage in front of people, or put myself out there to introduce myself to new people, or have the guts to sit down in front of a computer and write a blog without any formal writing education. Without worrying about what other people might think of me.
So thanks mom and dad, and thanks sweaty, fat Elvises (wherever they may be) for building up my awkward tolerance from a young age, and for giving me the strength to enjoy life... no matter how good, how bad, or how awkward.
Because nothing, and I mean nothing in this world can top Elvis impersonator awkward.
Point officially made.