Same old, same old

by Harley

The other day, I hopped on my spinning bike and found that one of my spinning shoes, attached to the bike, had died. Cracked right down the middle, like the Grand Canyon.

"What?!" I cried. "How can this be? It's not like it's old. Why, I've only had these for . . ." I did a quick calculation.

Fifteen years. My shoes, like my bike, date back to the Clinton Administration. For that matter, I've got a stair stepper bought in the early 90's, and I use it constantly. It creaks, it groans, but it works. It's a brand called Tetrix and I wish they made everything. Toasters, cars, human hearts. I cannot kill the thing. I expect my great-grandchildren will be doing their cardio workout on it long after I'm dead, recalling how Great Grandma Harley—and this may be my greatest legacy—once folded laundry while keeping her heart rate in the aerobic range while watching TV. (I call it launderobics. My children think this is an actual word and that all mothers do it.)

So I've got a stair stepper that's old enough to drink in a bar, a spinning bike old enough to vote, and while driving to the bike store for new shoes, I started thinking about my other stuff that's outlived its life expectancy. Tap shoes that have changed color 3 times. A favorite black velour sweatshirt—my "good sweatshirt"— bought in New York, at Barney's back in my soap days. A grand piano from 1984, also my soap days. I have a t-shirt in my closet that says STUNTS, 30 years old, given to me by a long-forgotten stuntman. And a blue-black wool Navy shirt with the name "Kozak" written on the label in my mother's handwriting. I wear it all winter, every winter. It's probably my brother Joe's from his tour of duty in the 70's, although nobody knows why it's in my closet. But there's an outside chance it's our dad's, who was also a sailor, in which case it dates back to World War II. Beat that, if you can.

The thing is, I don't know beans about antiques and I'm not into vintage couture. Wearing some stranger's old clothes is about as appealing to me as using their toothbrushes. I like new shoes, jeans, purses—ah, purses!—as much as the next girl (unless the next girl is Lindsay Lohan) but ever since my friend Andie pointed out how obsessed we Americans are with the nouveau, the novel, the shiny, trading in gently-used cars, spouses, cell phones, I've begun to notice the things I love that are old. My watch. The paintings on my walls. My yellow sweater. My dog Fez.

Of course, I'm preaching to the choir when I mention old books—I get weepy just dusting the bookshelves and seeing my children's baby books, crayon-covered, with missing pages: Goodnight Moon, Hippos Go Berserk, Tales of a Gambling Grandma, Sylvester and the Magic Pebble, I'll Love You Forever, What Are You So Grumpy About? Hop on Pop. Go, Dog, Go.

Which brings us to Daisy.

Remember Melissa Mia Hall, our friend who died in late January? Her dog Daisy, elderly, ill, and reported to have been euthanized, turned out not to be dead after all. Daisy was rescued through the tireless efforts of two intrepid souls, Laurie Moore and Floreen. Daisy's been nursed back to health, if not youth, and this weekend was officially adopted by a friend of Melissa's in Austin, Texas. Daisy, live long and prosper. Go, Dog, Go.

So tell me about the oldest thing hanging in your closet, parked in your garage, or shedding on your sofa. The thing that, like those first 79 Star Trek episodes, can never truly be improved on.

And Happy Monday!

~Harley