The other day, while Junior was sitting around doing homework, he asked a question about the Japanese internment during WWII. And as I proceeded with an explanation and comments about how horrible and shameful it was, he turned to me solemnly and said, “Were any of your friends sent away?”
Seriously? Seriously?
Oh, I am so not that old. Really. My own parents aren’t that old. Heck, only my Grandma is that old and she will proudly tell you that. But I? I am not that old.
Now, ask me about the ’80s and yes, I will freely admit that I am THAT old. I mean, I can tell you about leg warmers and “Flashdance” and why I was so ticked off that they remade “Footloose.” I can explain the basics of Aquanet and why you should never, ever use it on your hair near an open flame. I can tell you all about stirrup pants, neon shirts and believe me, I could rock a frizzy side pony with the best of them.
I know what a yuppy is, can define an MBA with one word (really not printable in a newspaper), I know what a DINK is and I remember when Bill Cosby wore sweaters and was the perfect father and didn’t just try to sell kids Jell-O Pudding Cups all day.
I remember when Michael Jackson was a) alive; and b) not nearly as weird as he was before he died. I watched MTV when they had actual music videos that were like little movies set to music. We didn’t have any of that “Teen Mom” stuff. Our zombies weren’t just “The Walking Dead,” they danced to “Thriller” too. And while it is true that Billie Jean was not Michael’s lover, having a light up sidewalk was the coolest thing ever.
Madonna taught me the rosaries and corsets look that I couldn’t wear to my Catholic school. But after school, I had ripped tights, lace gloves and a giant bow in my hair. True, my lips were sealed, but really girls just wanna have fun. I know Jenny’s phone number, but I also know that poor Rick Springfield would never, ever date Jessie’s girl.
My generation invented Valley Girl speak, so gag us with a spoon if you dare to speak like that. And like, totally, we like, never like to hear others say “like.” It’s like a total pet peeve of ours now that we’re all grown up. Also? We don’t like you to say “totally.”’
You think playing Call of Duty is hard? Please, try playing Frogger. Crossing the street was never more difficult. When you say, “it’s on like Donkey Kong,” remember that came out in the ’80s as well. And that whole Gran Turisimo thing? Two words: Pole Position.
I remember Nic Cage when he had his own hair and John Travolta when he talked to babies. Anything John Hughes directed spoke to my entire generation. Ferris Bueller wasn’t some guy in a car ad, for us he did take the most incredible day off ever. Our Karate Kid? He was the first and best. And John Cusack holding a boom box is the epitome of romance. Trust me. It is.
We saw Diana get married to a guy who was a prince, but didn’t turn out to be so charming. We saw the Berlin wall come down and we were all young republicans except those of us who weren’t. We watched a president get shot and recover. We saw John Lennon die. We saw Live Aid and it was awesome. We learned that “Star Wars” wasn’t just a movie; it was yet another military option to keep us safe from the big, bad, Soviet Union before it collapsed and morphed back into Russia.
Of course, to Junior it doesn’t matter. When you are 16, whether your mom came of age in the ’40s or the ’80s doesn’t make much difference. To a teenager, we are all lumped into a giant pot of old folks who have wrinkles even Botox can’t take away. But to me? It totally makes a difference. Like totally.
