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Today I was driving to the doctor’s office and listening to the ’90s station on Sirius. The song “Hand in My Pocket” by Alanis Treadwell (née Morissette) came on, and I instantly became unstuck in time. I used to drive around to that song in the actual ’90s.
Back in those days, I had a silver Ford Escort I called “Rocket Girl”— this was a perfectly mid-’90s name for a car; everything then was all about rockets and girls and silver polyester and Marvin the Martian and D’arcy Wretzky and whatever. If you were there, you know what I’m talking about. Anyway, I used to drive around in Rocket Girl and listen to Q101, Chicago’s rock alternative. At the time, I pretended to be too cool for Alanis because I was in a funny-punk band. (There is no Wikipedia entry for funny-punk, but I assure you it was a thing.) But whenever one of Alanis’s songs came on the radio, I’d crank it. And sing. And play air-harmonica at stoplights.
Today I drove to Beverly Hills, not as a teenager, but as a boring mother of two wearing J. Crew. And yet it seemed like no time had passed at all. I did some math. 17 years. “Hand in My Pocket” is over 17 years old, which means I’ve been a licensed driver for a long-ass time. TL;DR: I’m old.