An issue of Seventeen arrived for my daughter recently, wrapped in plastic with an "URGENT WARNING" renewal notice. Apparently, her subscription was drawing to its end and if we didn't "RENEW IMMEDIATELY," she might miss something.
Uh-oh.
My daughter is no longer seventeen. In fact, I left her half a birthday card yesterday to celebrate her turning eighteen-and-a-half. A very cute gesture, if I do say so myself. I was on a business trip, so I was spared her reaction, whatever that might have been.
But, I digress.
Seventeen actually seems to appeal more to younger teens and tweens than its eponymous target audience. So, for the first time in four years or so, I'm not going to write a check for another issue filled with "Best Prom Looks," "Dating Disasters" or even the oh-so-popular (unless, you're a parent, then it's oh-so-horrifying) "Be His Best Hook-Up Ever." Then, of course, there are the stories on celebrity crush heartthrobs of the moment, like "Zayne Malick Just Got a New Tattoo," "Is Brooklyn Beckham About to Launch a Rap Career?" and "A Shirtless Justin Bieber Shows Off His Newest Accessory." (Can I assume it's not a shirt?)
Audible sigh. Not.
Seventeen certainly isn't what it was when I was growing up. But, it nevertheless takes me back — if I don't look too closely — to my youth (Frye boots, Gunny Sack skirts, Dorothy Hamill haircut and Sweet & Sassy shampoo). And, of course, I remember some of the other magazines we all read back then.
Like Tiger Beat.
You see, we had heartthrobs too. Did we ever!
Here's a list of the hotties we crushed on (although we wouldn't have used those exact words) back in the 1970s, along with the hard-boiled journalistic headlines that appeared with their cover photos.
"GIANT DAVID CASSIDY WALL-SIZE-LOVING COLOR POSTER FILL YOUR ROOM! BIGGEST SIZE EVER!"
"GETTING HOOKED ON ROBBY BENSON — IT'S EASY & TERRIFIC!"
"BAY CITY ROLLERS: REALLY READY FOR ROMANCE!"
"MONKEE SECRET HIDEOUTS! DAVY JONES TALKS: HIS PAST LOVES"
"SCOTT BAIO: MAKE HIM NOTICE, LIKE & LOVE YOU!"
"THE REAL DONNY OSMOND: SWEET OR SEXY?"
"SHAUN CASSIDY ON TOUR: WHEN AND WHERE"
"WHY BARRY WILLIAMS HATES FANS"
"JOHN "BARBARINO" TRAVOLTA WANTS YOUR PHONE NUMBER (WILL YOU GIVE IT TO HIM?)"
"THE REAL PARKER STEVENSON: DON'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ!"
"BOBBY SHERMAN QUITS! LET'S CHANGE HIS MIND!"
and ...
"JACKSON 5 GROOVY LIFE LINES!" (What does that even mean?)
Those were the days, my friends.
A quick Google search confirms that Tiger Beat still exists! And, for a mere $19 (in the U.S.; it's more in Canada, sorry) I can receive eight glorious issues a year. I'm tempted ...
But, somehow, it just wouldn't be the same.
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
Earlier this month, my teenage daughter and I drove down to my hometown. She was along for the ride because I had wrangled half-price tickets to Hedwig and the Angry Inch, starring Glee's Darren Criss, who is particularly dreamy if you're seventeen. I was going for an even more sentimental reason. My 35th high school reunion.
All right, let me stop you before you say "You must be kidding!" Or "How is that possible?" Or "But, you look so young!"
Yeah, thanks, I know.
Ummm.
Anyway ...
We were also joined by our new canine. My New York family, having seen countless puppy posts, photos, and videos on Facebook, was desperate to meet him. The poor little guy had a couple of vaccines at the vet's the morning we left (rabies and the first of two for Lyme disease), so he wasn't very comfortable. The ride down was long.
Not too sure how the little dog would respond to a strange apartment, we stayed in, ordering (real) New York pizza and watching TV. Even though I hate to miss a single moment of city life, it was good to chill because the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind.
In the morning, there was a program at my high school. I grew up in the west 60s, and the school is in the east 90s. Despite some ominous clouds and a misty rain, I decided to walk diagonally through the park. Between the bikers and the joggers, dog walkers and strollers, suffice it to say, I wasn't alone.
The school was built on the grounds of an old armory. We moved there when I was in ninth grade, after two years in an office building near Grand Central Station. Later classes dubbed it "the brick prison." We were just happy to have a permanent home. The school, an extension of the City University of New York system, had been placed and displaced several times.
As I walked up 94th street towards Park Avenue, I felt a wave of familiarity. I wished for a moment that I could share it with my daughter or my husband. But, the former was still sleeping and the latter had politely declined. My husband won't go to his own reunions because he doesn't want to compare "hairlines, waistlines or bottom lines."
The morning was very satisfying. Twenty or twenty-five of my classmates had come. We met in one of the classrooms first (I think I had English there, once upon a time), hugged, kissed, caught up and took pictures. Then, we headed down to the newly renovated auditorium, where we were treated to video excerpts from the school's most recent musical, a couple of presentations from students, and comments from each milestone class. Most affecting were two 93-year-old alumnae who reminisced about finding their first jobs during World War II.
I had to rush out as soon as the representative from our class finished speaking to catch a cab down to Times Square, where my daughter would meet me for Hedwig. As soon as we finished at the theatre, we took another cab uptown where I changed, grabbed a bag of nametags, posters and goody bags, then jumped in yet another cab for a ride downtown to our reunion dinner.
What a wonderful evening! We had nearly 100 people and the atmosphere was pure joy. Even the girls who at seventeen were cultivating an attitude of world-weary blasé seemed genuinely happy to be there. We caught up with old friends and in some cases made new ones. And together we remembered the handful of classmates who passed away before their time.
These reunions mean more to me as I get older. Partly, I think, it's a natural nostalgia. But a lot of it has to do with watching my own high schooler negotiate her education and her friendships and all the changes she's going through as she moves from childhood to adulthood. I also have a much greater appreciation for my old school and the respect it afforded each of us. The building may have looked like a prison, but we had freedom that my daughter and her cohorts only dream of.
More than anything else, I look forward to the next reunion and celebrating who we were and who we've become with the remarkable women and men who shared that time with me.
Despite too much stress and too many rules, I hope my daughter will relish her reunions someday too.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My daughter is a bright young woman. She holds her own in AP World History and Honors French. She understands about the birds and the bees, how babies are born and grow from toddler to child to teen to adult. She doesn't believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny anymore.
She certainly doesn't think her mother sprung from the head of Zeus fully formed.
She knows I was once sixteen.
She just doesn't believe I was once sixteen.
Not in her heart of hearts. Not really. Why else would I constantly hear "Everything's different now." And, my personal favorite, "You just don't get it."
I myself forget sometimes. Weeks or even months will go by when I'm completely absorbed by the trappings of my midlife life. I work and run errands, do household chores. I have aches and pains. I have bills — oy vey, do I have bills (I'm writing this less than a fortnight after Income Tax Day). It's as though I've been 52 forever.
Then, someone will post a "Throwback Thursday" picture on Facebook. Or, an email from an old friend will find its way to my inbox. I'll catch a favorite song on the soft rock radio station. Or, some long lost fad will suddenly become cool again.
Then, bam, I'm sixteen.
In the past two weeks, I've had a string of "sixteen again" moments.
First, my best friend from high school showed up with her teenage daughter. They live in London, but visit the States often. The daughter, my namesake, wants to come to university here and major in drama. What a perfect reason to play hooky from work! (My own daughter had school and job commitments, but got a play-by-play later at dinner.)
We toured two schools (my friend's alma mater and mine), visited the theatre departments, spoke with current students. The whole experience would have made me feel very (very, very) old, except that while we were busy looking at colleges, we were even busier remembering high school. So many stories. So many whatever happened to you-know-who's. We were happy reliving our glory days, but I'm sure the never ending memories were a bit tedious for our younger companion. She was a very good sport about it all. And, for a time, I felt like I was sixteen again.
My next back-to-the-future moment (there were many of them really) happened in New York. We went down for a long weekend with our friends and their two teenagers. As the only native in the bunch, I was the official tour guide. We hit many of the most important sites: the 9/11 Memorial, the High Line, Fifth Avenue, Greenwich Village, Times Square. But, my narrative also included highlights from my teens.
"Here's where the 'dollah, dollah joint man' used to stand."
The "dollah, dollah joint man" stood in one particular corner of the bandshell at the end of the Central Park mall, near Bethesda Fountain. As you probably figured out already, he sold joints for ... a "dollah." In 1978, I was far from a stoner. But, no matter. Everyone knew the "dollah, dollah joint man." And now, my daughter, her two teenage friends and their parents do too. What a wonderful legacy I've passed on, n'est-ce pas? Nevetheless, for a few minutes there, I was sixteen again.
My third and final trip back to teenland happened yesterday. I had a long lunch with another middle-aged woman. Or so it must have seemed to other people at the sandwich shop/cannoli bakery we went to. For me, I was having lunch with my closest companion, a teenager like myself, who aspired to a life on the stage. We were fast, fast friends many moons ago when we were both members of a renowned children's theatre company. We went on tour together, performing at the Kennedy Center in DC and at the University of Toronto. We rehearsed four days a week after school and did two matinees every Saturday and Sunday. When we weren't rehearsing or performing, we could often be found in my bedroom listening to the Broadway cast recording of Evita. Over and over and over. The whole way home from lunch, I sang "Don't Cry For Me Argentina." I was sixteen again.
But, what if I could go back? What if I had a hot tub time machine or a souped up DeLorean? Would I want to go back if I could?
Watching my own sixteen year old, I know full well that I wouldn't want to go through all that again. The angst and acne, the friends and frenemies. The frustration of feeling like a grownup but not having the freedom to do anything about it.
No, I may have knee issues and mom jeans, but I'll stay put.
It's only in the rearview mirror that the teen years look so good.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite
you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
