I was born in the 70s and raised in the 80s, so I was able to comfortably enjoy my teenage years in 1990s.
And like every decade before and after it, this decade faced its own shares of struggle and hardship, but we made it out alive.
These days, the 90s are revered and cherished by all for its now-archaic, trailblazing technology down to the wacky clothes and zany entertainment.
Beyond that – for those of us that thrived in that era – it’s the little things that keep the memories churning. And no matter how long ago it was, we’ll forever miss those little things from the 1990s.
Seems like the last 3 times I visited someone was for a birth, a funeral, and a favor. And those visits may or may not have been for relatives. Thanks to Facebook – and only Facebook, no other sites are to blame – visits have become useless wastes of precious gasoline. Everything we were gonna chat about has already been strewn across FB. Literally, the only conversation we can have is about what happened to you in the last 26 minutes, as you drive over, unless you text and drive, because then you updated your status at every red light and I was right here reading it. Technology is a lonely, miserable bastard.
It was easy to have a multitude of chicks in the 90s. All you had to do was not answer the phone. Back then, communication wasn’t a continual cycle of shoulder-poking. The answer machine was there to retrieve any calls you missed, and you checked them when you “came back.” The voice mail is a descendant of the answering machine, much more intrusive and needy than its forefathers. Not to mention there were no search histories to haunt me and the only cookies I was worried about were the oatmeal raisin ones at Mrs. Fields.
These poor, culturally malnourished babies buy music from places like Target (pronounced tar-zhay) and Walmart – the respective Death Row and Bad Boy Records of department storing – and have no clue what it’s like to dig in racks and crates hunting for music. No search bar. No Google algorithms to narrow your quest. Just you and rap or R&B Jesus on the frontlines.
Big Ass Clothes
The other day, I slid back on the couch, and couldn’t find any comfort. Why? Because my jeans chafed away at my pale skin in such a manner that I suffered nominal left cheek damage with no one to blame but myself. And Old Navy. Had I still been rocking size 38 denim parachute pants like I did in high school, I wouldn’t have had that problem. Aside from that, the pants pockets nowadays are way too small for a man who refuses to carry a purse.