Glory Days

Yeah, they'll pass you by

Dear Gen Xer,

My back is killing me.
My kids won’t talk to me.
The world is fucked.
I’ll be working till I die.

That’s the gist of what I heard over the Christmas break. The speakers were Gen Xers of latchkey stock. Weaned on punk. Built Ford tough. Yet everyone I spoke to had aches and pains and more axes to grind than Jason freakin’ Voorhees. Even worse, they drowned their sorrows in wave after wave of nostalgia.

At one party I attended, a group of us sat in the living room and asked each other questions. What was your biggest takeaway of 2024? What would you like to accomplish in 2025? Typical end-of-the-year type stuff.

When it was the host’s turn to ask a question, she decided to switch things up a bit. “What was your favorite year?” she asked. “The favorite year you’ve ever lived.”

All of her guests oohed and aahed. I watched as they searched their poetic memories, weighing their experiences large and small, sifting for nuggets of gold.

“1996,” one guest said. “The year I went to France and did acid.”

“1983,” another guest said. “What I wouldn’t give to be a kid again.”

Round the room the question went, each guest offering their favorite year. Six peoples’ years were in the 1980’s. Ten peoples’ years were in the 1990’s. I was struck by how alive they looked while speaking about their past. Struck, as well, by how old they seemed when forced to deal with the present.

Eventually, it was my turn to share with the group.

“This year,” I said. “The one I just lived. This year was my favorite, and the next one will be better.”

I wasn’t trying to be a smartass. I was just stating my truth. I never expected to reach my 50’s. Simply put and bullshit aside, I’m happy (and lucky) to be alive.

I’d expected a few people to roll their eyes. A handful more to bust my chops. What I hadn’t counted on was anger.

One guest glared like I’d whizzed on his fence. “What are you, an existentialist? 2024 sucked for everyone!”

“Maybe he’s an oligarch,” someone said.

“He should’ve brought better wine then.”

Most of the guests, many of whom were my supposed friends, avoided me for the rest of the evening.

The awkward gap my answer had caused was filled soon after by the sound of music. From Madonna to Ministry, the bands played on. Some people danced. Most stared glassy-eyed and reminisced.

I wish I could go to a drive-in again.
Remember the episode when they changed apartments?
Remember New Coke?
Remember Punky Brewster?
I still have my friendship beads.

Then, as if scripted by a bizarro John Hughes, Glory Days came on.

Every Gen Xer knows this song. It was the fifth single off Born in the USA, an album that was unavoidable in the 1980’s. For better or worse, Springsteen’s ass is indelibly stamped on our collective memory.

Glory Days speaks to the dangers of nostalgia. Its honky-tonk piano and barroom guitars get your good ol’ American blood pumping. But the subject matter is bittersweet. Meet the old pitcher who had a cannon for an arm. Meet the fading beauty taking solace in a bottle. Meet the young narrator who’s doomed to repeat the same mistake – the mistake of letting the moment slip away while you bury your head in the past.

And, look, I get it: visiting the past is fun. I do it here every week. But visiting the past isn’t living in the past. Like the wonderful S.E. Hinton said, That Was Then and This Is Now.

You’re alive NOW. Your Glory Days are NOW.

That’s what I wanted to tell my friends. That’s what I wanted to shout over the music. Because that’s what they were saying with their trips down memory lane: that they wished they’d known better at the time; that they’d appreciated those days in the 80’s and 90’s while they were unfolding.

I found their dancing to Glory Days depressing and ironic. So much so that I was tempted to substitute Springsteen for Alanis. Instead, I left without saying goodbye.

I don’t know when - or if, for that matter - I’ll see those friends again. I do know this, however: Life’s too short to spend it in the past.

Because life is like a fastball from New Jersey. It’ll blow right by you if you let it.