When I was a kid, a normal-sized bag of Doritos was $2.10.
That wasn’t a “deal”—that was just the price. You’d walk into a convenience store with a couple bucks and walk out with snacks and still have change in your pocket. It felt normal, maybe even a little expensive if it was your own money. Today, that same bag costs more than double in a lot of places, and most of us barely react to it.
The number changed, sure—but what really changed is what we’re willing to accept without thinking about it. Inflation didn’t just raise prices. It quietly reset our expectations of what things are supposed to cost.
When I was a kid, if you called someone and they didn’t pick up, that was it.
No texting. No checking in. No “did you see my message?” You just had to wait. Maybe they were home, maybe they weren’t. Maybe you’d try again later, maybe you wouldn’t.
Plans carried weight because there was no backup system. If you said you’d meet somewhere, you showed up—or you missed out. There was no last-minute update, no real-time adjustment. That made showing up matter more.
Now we’re always connected. You can reach anyone, anytime.
And somehow, because of that, everything feels a little more optional.
When I was a kid, the internet wasn’t part of everyday life.
If you had it at all, it was dial-up. Loud, slow, and shared. You’d hear that connection sound like you were opening a portal, and once you were online, nobody else could use the phone. You didn’t go on the internet just to scroll—you had a reason. You checked something, maybe played a game, and then you got off.
There was a clear beginning and end to it.
Now the internet isn’t something we “go on.”
It’s something we never really leave.
We gained instant access to information, entertainment, and communication. But in the process, we lost the natural boundary that used to separate “being online” from just… living.
When I was a kid, getting lost meant you were actually lost.
No GPS. No voice telling you to turn in 500 feet. You either had directions written down, or you were figuring it out in real time. You paid attention to street names, landmarks, turns—because you had to.
And if you messed up, you didn’t reroute instantly. You pulled over. You asked someone. You retraced your steps.
You walked into the shady gas station, waiting to hear about some random landmarks that were supposed to let you know if you're on the right track.
"If you pass the giant bee's nest, then you've gone too far."
Today, you can get anywhere without thinking twice.
But because of that, we don’t always learn where we are. We follow directions instead of understanding them.
Convenience replaced awareness.
Believe it or not, physical maps still exist.
When I was a kid, boredom was part of the deal.
If nothing was on TV, nothing was on TV. There wasn’t a backup option waiting in your pocket. You either found something to do, or you sat there and dealt with it.
And in that space, something important happened.
You created things. You used your imagination. You made up games, built something out of nothing, or just let your mind wander. It wasn’t always exciting—but it was yours.
I used to build forts, and I'd pretend they were some grand structure that had multiple rooms.
In reality, it was bed sheet that was thrown over a couch a a couple of chairs.
But as a kid, it still felt like something huge, because I made it.
Now boredom lasts about 10 seconds before we reach for a screen.
We solved boredom almost completely.
And in doing that, we lost a lot of the space where creativity used to grow naturally.
The boredom has shifted, first we didn't have any options, now we have too many.
Having too many options can be just as bad as not having any. It's all about balance.
When I was a kid, we had a “Fireman’s Carnival” in my town every year.
On the surface, it was just a local fair. Probably smaller than I remember it being. But as a kid, it felt massive. It always started with a parade—sirens, trucks, candy flying through the air—and then rolled into the carnival itself.
Rides, fried food, games you were almost guaranteed to lose.
But that wasn’t what made it special.
It was the feeling.
You’d go with your friends, running around with just enough freedom to feel like you were getting away with something. No constant check-ins, no tracking, just a loose plan to meet back up later.
For a few hours, that place wasn’t just a fair.
It was everything.
Now there are bigger events, better attractions, more polished experiences.
But they don’t always feel bigger.
When I was a kid, we played outside.
Not occasionally—constantly. Bikes all over the neighborhood, no real destination, no structured plan. You’d fall, scrape your knee, get up, and keep going. You drank from the hose like it was completely normal—because it was.
And when the streetlights came on, that was the signal.
Time to go home.
No reminders, no texts—just a shared understanding that somehow everyone followed.
It was freedom, but it came with an unspoken structure that didn’t need to be explained.
There was a level of disconnect back then that I don't believe truly exists anymore.
Now things are safer, more organized, more supervised.
But there’s less of that unstructured time where you figure things out on your own without realizing it.
When I was a kid, renting a movie or video game from Blockbuster felt like hitting the lottery.
You walked in hoping they had what you wanted—and sometimes they didn’t. That was part of it. Limited copies, no guarantees.
But when they did have it?
That case in your hand felt like gold.
And it wasn’t forever.
You had a couple days. That meant you watched the movie that night. You played the game as much as you could. There was urgency, intention. You got everything you could out of it because you knew it was temporary.
Now we have endless libraries, instant access, and no deadlines.
And somehow, we spend more time deciding what to watch than actually watching it.
The new boredom.
When I was a kid, you didn’t make long distance calls without permission.
Calls were charged by the minute. If someone said “I’m on a long distance call,” you respected that immediately. You kept conversations short, to the point.
Talking had a cost.
And because of that, it had weight.
Now we can talk to anyone, anywhere, for free.
And conversations feel easier to start—but also easier to abandon.
Being "left on read" is almost always a guarantee these days.
When I was a kid, going out to eat was a big deal.
It wasn’t expected. It wasn’t routine. It just happened sometimes, and when it did, it felt special.
You got ready. You went out. You sat down and ordered like it meant something.
Sunday brunch at Abdow's wasn’t just about the food—it was the experience, the consistency, the memory of it.
Now eating out is common. Convenient. Sometimes even easier than cooking.
But because of that, it doesn’t always feel like anything.
I still make it a point to remember what it was like going out to eat as a kid.
When I was a kid, going to the movies was an experience.
The big screen, the dark room, the popcorn—it all felt larger than life. For two hours, you were somewhere else completely. No distractions, no second screens, no pausing.
Just the movie.
Now we have bigger TVs, better sound systems, and instant access at home.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
Because it was never just about the movie—it was about the escape.
For two hours, you were fully immersed in another world.
Popcorn in one hand, soda in the other, and the boxes of candy in your pocket that you bought from the dollar store before you walked in.
Let's face it, the "no outside food" sign for a move theater is the "beware of dog" sign for someone who has a lap dog.
When I was a kid, sleepovers were one of the best things ever.
Not just because you got to stay up later—though that was definitely part of it—but because it was guaranteed time. You didn’t have to wonder if you were hanging out the next day. You already were.
And that mattered more than you realized.
Because your friends were busy.
Practices after school. Homework. Family plans they didn’t even know about yet. Weekend commitments like Boy Scouts or other activities. Their schedules weren’t really theirs—they were being pulled in every direction.
So you had to pick your spots.
If you waited too long to ask, someone else might’ve already locked it in. And then you were waiting even longer.
“Sorry, I’m busy this week” wasn’t an excuse.
It was reality.
So when a sleepover finally happened, you appreciated it.
Because it wasn’t guaranteed.
On the flip side, there are some absolute horror stories about sleepover experiences that other people have had.
Things that I wouldn't wish upon anyone.
I wish everyone had only experienced sleepovers the way that they were meant to be.
What Changed—and What It Means
None of this was perfect.
Things were slower. Less convenient. More limited.
But those limitations created something we don’t always have now:
Meaning.
Scarcity made things feel special.
Effort made things feel earned.
Waiting made things feel worth it.
Now everything is at our fingertips.
You can get almost anything you want delivered right to your door just by pressing a few buttons.
You can get unlimited information on basically anything just by typing a question into a search engine.
You can get everything right away.
The scarcity, effort, and waiting are all gone.
Sometimes that's a good thing, other times, not so much.
The Trade-Off
We gained access.
We gained speed.
We gained convenience.
But we gave up a little bit of anticipation.
A little bit of appreciation.
A little bit of presence.
The Point
This isn’t about saying things were better.
They weren’t. Just different.
But if you grew up in the 90s, you experienced both sides of that shift.
You know what it felt like before everything was instant.
And that means you still have the ability to recognize what made those moments matter—and maybe, every once in a while, choose to bring a little bit of that back.
Because while we can’t go back to when we were kids…
We don’t have to leave everything from that time behind.
Thanks for reading folks, until next week!
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