The Regence Group
published September 21, 2007
Adventures of a Fortysomething: My Hippie Summer
Our friendly neighborhood fortysomething decided to experience a mini version of the Summer of Love, sans body painting and patchouli, of course.
by Jeanne Faulkner
I spent my summer searching out my inner hippie. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but back in high school I had hippie inclinations. Where's that girl now? I decided to find out.
First stop: the new-age bookstore for some exploratory toe-dipping in the pond of spiritual writing. It was a quick dip. The new-age music and incense drove me out before I could purchase anything subversive. I blasted alternative rock afterwards to dilute the Enya/Yanni soundtrack. New-age music makes me violent. Before bolting, though, I grabbed Body and Soul magazine. Ahh, magazines--the candy of the book world. If you're not up to a heavy meal (Carlos Castaneda, Jack Cantor), candy is dandy.
My husband asked what I wanted to do for my birthday in July. Without hesitation I blurted, "Go to Breitenbush Hot Springs!"
"Where the naked hippies are?" he asked.
"Yeah, that place. Let's stay in the cabins, soak in the tubs and get massages. Without kids." I'd heard about Breitenbush through articulate, high-functioning friends with minimal hippie residue. They go annually and rave about the gorgeous setting, heavenly pools, gourmet vegetarian cooking, soothing yoga and massages. What's not to love? Hot springs are like baths in a meadow, right? "Except for all the naked people," my husband said.
We checked in on a bright Saturday and looked around. The strong smells of patchouli and Dr. Bronner's soap made me nostalgic. Sleepy guests clutched mugs on the deck. They'd warned us to bring our own caffeine "if you're into that." I am. We brought coffee. "No Alcohol, Drugs or Smoking" warnings were posted. Caffeine is the most elicit substance allowed. We'd packed the good stuff.
The lodge bulletin board listed the expected yoga and meditation classes. The "Dancing for Clarity" workshop seemed confusing until a bearded fiftysomething wearing a hand-woven loincloth twirled into the auditorium. Gyrating to the pulsing disco track laid down over Sarah McLachlan, he was soon joined by several other barely clad dancers who grasped hands and, apparently, danced for clarity. Mystery solved.
Further down the list were the words that bristled my neck hair. Birthing from Within's workshop. Ohmigod. I was surrounded by natural-childbirthers--not that there's anything wrong with that. Birthing from Within is an educational philosophy of breathing and relaxation techniques for un-medicated childbirth. I, however, am a labor and delivery nurse--part of the hospital establishment. That's right--I bat for the wrong team. Hospitals offer 24-hour accessibility to epidurals, the downfall of many a naturalist. My husband sensed my fear and horns sprouted on his head. "You wouldn't," I warned.
"Oh yes. I would. I'm gonna tell them you're a labor nurse. You're gonna get it," he said all sing-songy.
"If you tell, you're getting your own cabin."
He teased me about it all weekend.
Our massages were 90 minutes in heaven. My therapist was vigorous but intuited all the tight spots. She finished, though, with something weird. She brushed me off. Like I had crumbs. Brush, brush, sweep, sweep--all done. Not wanting to appear naïve, I didn't ask. Maybe she'd massaged all the bad vibes out and wanted to tidy up. Whatever, I loved the massage.
We headed to the pools and the Big Decision--naked or not? The resort is clothing-optional, but nobody chose clothes. My husband announced, "It's time. Drop your drawers." So we did, but with a discreet towel shimmy allowing a casual slip into the pool. We didn't look nervous or anything.
Our pool-mates soaked in all stages of modesty: some discreetly covered by water; others not. One trio was so tattooed they looked dressed. Another guy, about 45 and not in great shape, draped himself across a rock--legs in the pool but man parts on display. Geez. Where do you look? There it was, not three feet from me, and all I could think was, "Don't stare." I couldn't help peeking, though. They really do come in different sizes.
I'm self-conscious about my stomach and scar collection. I've had kids and surgeries, and I'm not a supermodel anymore. I'm fairly fit, but still…I like clothes. The pools, however, displayed the full spectrum of glory: poochie tummies, saggy breasts, hairy butts, scars, tattoos and lots of armpit hair. Before long, I relaxed; now I was self-conscious mostly because I'm a shaver and didn't feel "natural" enough. Still, despite all my "issues," I look OK.
The weekend passed quickly, and despite our cynicism about the "clarity dancers," we each had some insight later. As I did yoga and my husband ran, we realized we were also exercising for clarity. Just not in loincloths.
We wrapped my hippie summer at the Oregon Country Fair, figuring it would be fun to expose the kids to something different. Really expose! They had more nudists than Breitenbush. I was impressed by the breast painting--yeah, like face painting. Flowers, fairies, seashells. One woman was painted like a hot fudge sundae and her nipples were the cherries. So creative.
The heat and crowds made me claustrophobic. This time, the patchouli mixed with pervasive pot smoke. My college girls were amused and my adolescent son horrified. A guy wore one strategically placed sock like the Red Hot Chili Peppers used to. My youngest asked, "Where's his other sock, Mama?"
Here's what I learned from my hippie summer: I'm not one anymore. Patchouli reeks and incense gives me asthma. I like natural fabrics, but don't go for macramé or tie-dye. I stay dressed in public. I groom and wear makeup. And, OK, I'll just say it: I wax. I may have hippie roots, but apparently they've all grown out and been covered with styling products.
Originally published on MyRegence.com