Over the weekend, the editorial staff of this fine publication did something it is known to do: party. We Cardinalistas live by two codes. The first you will find printed at the bottom of each edition’s front page (I'll wait while you check the PDF). The second is one inscribed within our hearts, a mantra we were all born believing: Work hard, play hard.
This weekend’s fiesta featured a ’90s theme. I was particularly drawn to it seeing as I am at an age where damn near every aspect of my life is in flux, so I feel safe clinging to images of a slime-covered Amanda Bynes or crime-fighting turtles.
Still, while it is now easy to remember the ’90s as a carefree era of my life, I know the decade featured its own unique problems. Truth be told, I have always been a bit neurotic (My mother told my kid self that “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” should be my theme song), and my time spent in single digits was no exception.
Sure, the concerns of my Limited Too-clad self were not quite as weighty as the obstacles of today—get a job, move to a city where I know no one, whatever—but they felt so at the time. So let’s put on our rose-tinted glasses and get nostalgic for the fears of yesteryear, shall we?
Make-out parties
Remember when TGIF and the like tried to convince us these were a thing? And by “tried to convince us” I mean they were profoundly successful in getting me to think middle-school parties were comprised exclusively of dimmed lights and couples swapping spit within two feet of each other.
I recall one episode of “Full House” in particular, delightfully titled “Making Out is Hard To Do.” Stephanie walks in the door of her no-good friend, Gia’s, party, is immediately put in the hands of some dude named Bobby and told to “have fun!” Gia then flips off the lights and, without pause, the tweens—with the exception of Stephanie, of course—start frenching like there’s no tomorrow.
I do not remember my exact reaction to what I assumed was a glimpse into my future, but I imagine it was an overwhelming mix of terror and shock. This is what junior high was going to be like? What if I was a bad kisser? I had gone to summer camp, but the place was saturated in Bible verses and chaperones, so it was not like us girls snuck out and practiced kissing on our forearms under the moonlight. That would have made Jesus cry.
Eventually I would mature enough to recognize these gatherings, like most “Full House” anecdotes, were a load of bologna. Sure, the drunken parties we all attended our freshman years had a regrettable essence of this tomfoolery, but nothing quite as on-the-nose as the shindig Stephanie found herself at. This is not to say, however, the episode didn’t move me to whip out the pillow and start practicing.
Getting married straight out of high school
Two things happened when I watched Topanga propose to Cory at their high school graduation: The seeds of feminism were planted in my nine-year-old soul, and the realization that my prom date had to be “the one” slapped me in the face. It was as if a clock had started to countdown: You have 10 years, Jacqueline, to find a husband as loving as Cory Matthews. Go.
Well crap. Cory had been in love with Topanga since before they were officially teenagers, so I really only had four years to find him—at best. Did the world not know boys were gross? I wasn’t wearing my David and Goliath “Boys are stupid” T-shirt because I disagreed with its message.
As if this was not perplexing enough, all of my favorite shows seemed to be in on this cause. Think about it: D.J. had Steve. Sabrina had Harvey. Pete had Pete. Cripes!
Again, with age came understanding, and by understanding I mean not ridiculous teen narratives. Had I gotten married to my high school boyfriend… dear god, I won’t waste your time entertaining that nightmare, but let’s just say though the timeline has been altered, Cory Matthews has proven a good point of comparison.
Inherently known, overly choreographed prom dances
I have never been one to groove with the beat. While all of my girl friends were going to dance class, I was at Young Astronomers building rockets with my dad. I was OK with this. I never learned to dance because I never wanted to. That all changed upon viewing “She’s All That.”
What a phenomenal flick. Freddie Prinze, Jr. is a hunk that still makes me go weak in the knees. No shame. Additionally, the nerdy girl got the guy, which was encouraging for the eight-year-old who, again, spent her Saturdays studying planets and longing for a telescope.
Regardless, the film’s prom scene shook me to my core. As soon as handsome Freddie walked into the ballroom, “The Rockafella Skank” came on and everyone just knew the moves to this supremely intricate dance. I was baffled. How does that happen? Were they warned ahead of time in the school announcements or something? Would I be warned? During puberty, could I expect to develop dance skills in addition to boobs and leg hair? Needless to say, I was flipping out.
Of course, I would learn that this was just one of the many lies movies were pushing about prom, the other two big ones being that everyone loses their virginity that night and that the event is actually fun.
These were just three of the struggles I faced as a kid. Getting the latest Hip Clip, arguing with my mom about subscribing to the Mary-Kate and Ashley Fan Club, going to PG movies; all these and more kept me up in the ’90s. Still, I’d give back every Beanie Baby if it meant I could stop worrying about the future and instead focus on whether Nick or Justin is cuter.
Were make-out parties totally a thing but Jacqueline wouldn’t know because she was never invited to one? Whomp. Tell her what a loser she is at jgoreilly@dailycardinal.com.
