They Just Don't Understand.
Oh, high school.
You pushed the limits on curfew. Made out with your boyfriend in the backseat. Walked in past the rents, for the Goodnight/Let-Us-Smell-Your-Breath-Check. One night, you even walked past Dad, sans shirt. Ragin' party Dad, you wanted to say. But instead you just stumble-stepped up the beige-carpeted stairs. Past the beige-painted walls. Grabbed the Doritos. Jumped into bed, and promptly got The Spins.
Or maybe you were a good kid. A star mathathlete or the FBLA prez. A National Merit Scholar, or National Honor Society Veep. Betcha still got caught once or twice sifting through your stash. Sortin' out your um, collection. Out of nowhere Dad appeared right behind you! What are you doing up here (you screamed). But what you wanted to say was wanna hit that shit with me?
Nowadays, you cut 'em some slack. You find them pretty hilarious and/or kinda right about some things (nothing good happens after midnight/Auntie Joan is a little off her rocker). These Baby Boomer creatures amuse you. They use AOL, still. Quote Reagan. Get all dreamy-eyed over James Taylor, still. Wear Izod polos like they are going outta style. Which they are. And they were. For the last ten years or so. These boomies wear their Ray-Bans religiously (not even closely related to their recent surge in popularity). Ma makes you carrot cake every single year for your birthday. Because she knows it was your favorite. When you were ten. But you act like it still is. You love 'em. You tell your dad you think your mom is The Shit. He tells you later she asked if being The Shit was good or bad. Precisely.
There is no real point or quirky ending to this post. Call Your Parents, Tell Them You Love Them Friday? They kept ya around and let ya boomerang back home. Maybe they do understand something, Jazzy Jeff.