“What was it like living through the 80s, Brian?” read the writing on the whiteboard.
Grrrrr!
Those darn college kids. Little whipper-snappers. Children of the — gasp! — 90s. Nineties?!? Can that be right? Did they — gulp! — did they really grow up in the 90s?
The dry-erase board with the cutesy, sarcastic little question written on it snickered at me. So did the students gathered around the office of the student newspaper that I advise.
“Har, har,” I grumbled at them as they gazed at this “dinosaur” — me — squinting his tired eyes to read the board. “Yes, I have worn parachute pants and they’re actually quite comfortable.”
Little buggers, asking me what it was like living through the 80s?!?
One of the journalism kids had written it after he learned — and it had royally shocked him — that I will turn 37 in a week or so. The concept seemed rather incredible to him — the number so high and almost mythical. Shoot, he probably didn’t have $37 in his bank account. So how COULD he comprehend a number so large? And from a time so long ago … before he was even born … before there were even iPods.
“Did you ever have a mullet?” one of the students asked. The room filled with laughter.
“No,” I shot back. “I had this very same hairdo the day I was born. And I also came out with five o’clock shadow.”
They were really razzing me. In their eyes, I was now an “older gentleman,” or just plain old.
It had never been like this before. Thirty-six never seemed that big a deal around them. But this new number sparked a different reaction. Maybe it’s something in the sound, or that it just sounds so humongous.
But I don’t feel old, which is probably what bothers me the most. I’m strong, healthy and in shape — young for my age. Yet, despite how I feel, my age doesn’t sound that young anymore. These kids were proving it with their gasps, giggles and questions like, “so how did you download music with an abacus?”
Grrrrr! I hope hair starts growing out of their ears.
Somehow there never seemed to be that much of an age gap between us. Obviously I was older, and hopefully wiser, but suddenly it’s feeling like a gulf of time between us. There’s at least a 15-year difference between my age and the oldest of the students I work with. Think of it this way: In the state of Florida, you need to have lived that many years just to get a learner’s driving permit.
To think of the shock I felt several years back when I realized students weren’t even born when the first “Star Wars” movie came out. Now it’s even worse: this batch missed the entire trilogy, not to mention “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” “Ghostbusters” and “Back to the Future.” They also think VCRs are something you can cure with a shot.
Like I said, it doesn’t bother me that I’m getting older — I’m fine with that — rather it’s that people THINK I’m older. Like I’ve passed some imaginary demarcation line that separates them from me. That I’m no longer young, and am now a full-fledged member of the fraternity of adults because of the years I’ve lived.
Strange how a number can begin to define you like that. And how a bunch of college students will look at you differently because of it.
But I need to get past that. Who cares if they think I’m getting old? I know better.
So what was it like living through the 80s? It was great, I should tell them, especially being around to see the whole “Star Wars” trilogy.