A few days ago, my 14-year-old son happened to see some photos from my youth. As he gazed upon his mother in all her big haired, acid washed glory, he said, “Did you guys know you looked kinda crazy back then? Or did you really think all that was totally normal?”
“Not only did we think we looked normal,” I answered, “but we were pretty sure we looked wicked awesome.”
And how wicked awesome were we, really? Shoulder pads, blue mascara, leg warmers. I mean, the hits just kept coming. The funny thing is, I vividly remember looking at pictures of my own parents in the 1960s and thinking the same thing my son thinks now: how in the world could they walk around like that all day?
So the baton has been passed. I’m getting old. And one of the benefits of age is the right to annoy the younger generation by waxing nostalgic. Want to join me?