I read the other day about how this decade never really had a name — not something that rolled quickly off the tongue like the 80s, captured the decade in a catchy phrase like the Roaring 20s, or put things into perspective, like how the 70s are best known as “the great polyester infection.” (Or at least they are in my mind.)
But this decade, monumental, historic and tragic as it was, has gone without a name, which seems like we’re short-changing it. It deserves an epithet — something that sums it up. Me? I will always refer to it as the “OH-ohs” — similar to “uh-oh,” but grunted more and forlorn. The first “OH” excited and upbeat; the second like, “oh crap!”
Think about it: This was the decade we all thought we were rich — OH! — before learning the Chinese were foreclosing upon us — oh!
This was supposed to be the decade of interstellar space travel, robots with artificial intelligence, cars that flew, and us all wearing futuristic, super-hot body suits, no matter what our body type. But those childhood dreams never quite came true — my computer can barely get the printer to work, and for most Americans, body suits should be deemed illegal.
Sure, this is the decade that brought us the iPod, but it also makes me feel old when I think that one day I’ll be trying to explain to my grandchildren that the music player implanted in their brains just can’t measure up to mp3s and a good pair of ear buds.
“You can’t hear all the digital blips and scratches on them there things,” I’ll say.
“Grandpa, is an iPod a vegetable?” they’ll snicker.
So much happened this decade. Think of it all: Enron, wardrobe malfunctions, Martha Stewart going to jail (how surreal does that sound? The woman baked pies!), tsunamis, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston breaking up, Ronald Reagan dying, Pope John Paul II dying, Michael Jackson dying, the Crocodile hunter dying (and from a stingray no less!), Facebook being born, “American Idol” being born, O.J. finally going to jail, and the hanging chad.
And that’s just the little stuff. How will we ever forget Sept. 11, two wars, the worst recession since the dinosaurs went extinct and all the travails of Britney Spears?
I’m still holding out hope that they’ll find Jimmy Hoffa before it’s all over (at an Iowa truck stop with Elvis) and that someone will discover the recession was just a clerical error due to an economist misplacing a decimal point. “False alarm! Go back to your exuberant, irrational spending,” a press release will announce.
But it probably won’t end on such a high note.
Yet, for all the turmoil, tragedy and trepidation, I wouldn’t change too much if I could. So much good still came from the OH-ohs. I got a daughter this decade — a wonderful, precious, beautiful daughter. She’s an OH-oh, and she’s OK. Just the other day I got her to start calling me, “my dear, sweet pa-pa.” Man, I’ll never forget that!
All four of her years were lived in this decade, and I’ll always remember all the firsts we shared during this time — her first snowman in New York’s Central Park. The first time she gave me a kiss or told me she loved me. Her first Band-Aid. Her first diaper. The first time she got to pet a dolphin, fish juices running down her arm. The first time we brought her home. The first time she climbed a rock, which must have looked like Mt. Everest to her. Her first pony ride, atop a critter named Scooter. Her first hamburger. Her first pair of shoes. Her first s’more. Her first day of school. Her first Christmas.
So, sure, maybe the Chinese do own us and we’re all dirt poor, but isn’t it the little things in life that really matter? And maybe that’s what the OH-ohs really taught us — that you have to appreciate what you have, that we can’t ever take anything for granted, that we must always look on the bright side and that a little girl calling you “my dear, sweet pa-pa” is really all you need.