Ah, the good ol’ days when the only thing standing between us and the abyss of boredom was a twice-weekly chore chart and the latest episode of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." You remember, right? Those halcyon hours filled with the unmistakable sounds of vacuuming – back when the only cords that mattered were the ones attached to our trusty Electrolux and not the latest USB-C cable we convinced ourselves was absolutely necessary. Seriously, I could suck the life out of a dust bunny with my eyes closed and still name all the characters from “Saved By The Bell.”
Chores back then weren’t just about cleaning; they were a rite of passage, complete with a soundtrack of our favorite cassette tapes (My walkman was always prepared for the shuffle of New Kids on the Block and Salt-N-Pepa). There we were, in our mismatched neon legwarmers and slap bracelets, left behind to tidy our rooms while our parents sipped Crystal Pepsi and laughed at "Dude, Where's My Car?"— a movie which, to be fair, was basically a documentary about our lives back then. I mean, working with actual cleaning supplies? I can still hear my mom’s voice: “You’ve got to use all four different color sponges, Jason!” Talk about PTSD.
Now, in today’s world, where the children parade their “clean rooms” through filtered TikToks without breaking a sweat, all we had was a broom and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the day would end on a high note, like a triumphant finish of burgers on the grill—because nothing says summer like being covered in pollen and the remains of previous generations' picnics. Forget rewards like gaming consoles; our payment was the satisfaction of knowing we could sprawl on the carpet in front of our big box TV, rocking out to “I Want It That Way” after a solid vacuum session. That was our Netflix, folks.
In retrospect, I guess there was a certain charm in slaving away while listening to the scratchy sounds of vinyl records and knowing (absolutely) that cleaning up would ultimately lead to a couple of hours of freedom to hang out with friends and drool over Jonathan Taylor Thomas on “Home Improvement.” So here’s to those chore-filled escapades, where elbow grease was our secret weapon, and success came with a side of clumsily folded laundry and a sickly nostalgic dose of “Can’t Hardly Wait.” Who knew that years later, we’d trade it all for a swipe of our iPhones and algorithms that can tell us how to mix bleach with indifference? Cheers!