I belong in a time when he would call me on his family’s rotary telephone after football practice in the evenings, as I would sit in the parlor beside mine in anticipation, still in my pleated cheerleading skirt.
He would arrive promptly at 7:00 in order to receive my parent’s permission to take me out. I belong in the generation of ice cream parlors, soda fountains, and drive in movies. I want red lipstick and patent heels, a powdered nose and bobby pinned curls. I crave letters with wax seals, vintage stamps, postmen that walk house-to-house, and mint green convertibles.I so badly want to know how my mind would work without the constant vibration of my iPhone or the siren call of my Mac. I want the simplicity of spending time with the “gals” without the constant distraction of “he texted me this,” or “she tweeted that.” I want to go to the library to do my schoolwork, dutifully researching in books, not Google.I want a flower box and a window seat, with saturday morning sunlight streaming into my bedroom. I want to wear an apron when I bake, and sit around the fire with family to listen to the radio. I want him to bring flowers and chocolate on Valentines Day, both for my mom and me. I want him to hold my hand and kiss me goodnight on the porch. I want to go for a drive, cranking up the radio with a chiffon scarf trailing behind me in the breeze. I want to order one milkshake, two straws (he pays). I want to pull my hair back with a barrette, call blush "rouge" and be allowed to wear a dab of mom's perfume on special occasions. I want pearls and oxfords, and skirt suit dresses. I want matching striped pajamas, and my mom to turn my bed down for me every evening. I want lace-rimmed socks, thick reading glasses, a stack of books, and a reading lamp by my bed.