I’m not one of those Cingular-dependent, cable TV-aholics who’d have a panic attack if I couldn’t check my e-mail.
So when Tempo challenged me (a 24-year-old writer for RedEye) to a time warp back to 1970 and to, for a week, ditch anything that had not been invented at that time, I thought it would be easy. It’s not like PBS’ recent show “Colonial House,” where people traveled back to the era of candlelight, inkwells and carriages. 1970 was only 34 years ago — that’s pretty modern, right?
Call it arrogance or lack of foresight, but the assignment was far from breezy.
I’ve got two words for you: Diet Coke.
Well, make that four: sunless tanner.
Maybe six: hair straightener.
More like eight: bottled water.
Ten’s a round number: debit card.
Needless to say, when I realized what I’d gotten myself into, I was well on my way to the single most cumbersome week I’ve had since I was a 15-year-old-with-no-wheels-trying-to-date.
The rules
1. I was not allowed to use anything that was invented after 1970.
2. Even though RedEye didn’t exist back then, I was allowed to go to work. Imagine that.
3. Computer, Internet, e-mail and cell phone were allowed for work purposes only.
4. I had to pretend that my cell phone was a landline — cords and all — when I was at home, since I don’t have a land-line.
5. A week’s worth of bellbottoms wasn’t in the budget, so my standard clothes were permitted.
Breaking the rules
Sorry, but I cheated three times:
1. I e-mailed a friend who was having a personal problem.
2. I drank a bottle of water at the Printer’s Row Book Fair.
3. I used my ATM card at Walgreens to buy allergy medicine.
Timeline of a typical day
8 a.m. Without my cell phone alarm to wake me up, I rely on one of those plug-in versions. Before long, I want to throw it against the wall because I have to manually push the hour and minute buttons at least 10,000 times to set it.
8:15 a.m. Maybe it was part of the Great Oats Conspiracy of 1970, but neither of my preferred cereals — Honey Bunches of Oats or Total Brown Sugar and Oats — were in grocery stores back then. Adamantly opposed to crunching the classic, Frosted Flakes (sooooo not glamorous), I opt to be a human orangutan, chomping bananas instead.
8:30 a.m. Natural hair was the look, and blow dryers and hair straighteners were out. Instead of showering in the morning, I scrubbed down the previous night so my hair would not be wet in the morning. Translation: greasy, kinky hair. All day. Ick.
8:45 a.m. Speaking of natural, I go through, like, withdrawal from my sunless tanner. Usually I apply my instant bronzer before donning a skirt. This week I had to wear pants or risk exposing the world to my pasty flesh! I also don’t smile very much, since my teeth bleach had to stay on the shelf next to the tanner. What’s up with this earthy look? At least Cover Girl was in business and I got to wear my lipstick.
9:30 a.m. Back then, the bright idea for RedEye had not yet been brainstormed, and (please don’t fire me) I would never even consider fiddling with the coffee-table size pages of the Chicago Tribune while on the “L.” So I observed my fellow commuters. Many were so not in my 1970 House: rocking out to their iPods, sipping Starbucks.
9:55 a.m. Cell phone is verboten. Don’t own a wristwatch. So have to ask what time it is so I can see how late I am going to be to work that day.
10:05 a.m. My favorite part of every day — the last leg of my commute, when I walk from the Red Line Grand Avenue stop through Nordstrom to Tribune Tower — is interrupted. The Michigan Avenue Nordstrom did not open until 2000, so instead of thinking about which shoes I can come back to buy on my lunch break, I totally panic because I actually don’t know an alternate route. A passerby points me toward Illinois Street. Definitely not as fun as drooling over the BCBG Girls collection.
10:20 a.m. Work starts. It quickly becomes obvious that if I were not allowed to suspend the rules while I’m here I wouldn’t even know how to do my job. I use LexisNexis and Google about 20 times per day, and send anywhere from 30 to 50 e-mails. I’m surrounded by TVs broadcasting networks that didn’t exist. I use yellow pages.com to find the people I need to call. Our entire production system is based in computer programs that didn’t exist. I have a new appreciation for my predecessors in the Tower.
Lunch. Nordstrom, as it turns out, is a really important part of my life. Sitting at my desk, I wonder if I can somehow make going for a Maytag blue cheese salad at the cafe into a work-related activity. Dejected, I realize I can’t — and that I have no cash. Wouldn’t you know the first patent for an ATM was not given to Don Wetzel until 1973? I will not walk a mile in my heels to the nearest Washington Mutual to withdrawal cash, so I have to bum a fiver from a co-worker. I head to McDonald’s. Thank God for America’s timeless classic: a cheeseburger and french fries. The rest of the week, I pack a peanut butter sandwich.
5:30 p.m. — Break time. This is easily the biggest challenge for me, as it involves two big 1970 no-nos: Diet Coke (not introduced until 1982) and cell phone gabbing. I can’t even call my friends on my work line because I don’t know anyone’s phone number by memory — they’re all plugged into my cell phone. I try to think of second-choice break activities, but online shopping and astrology.com are off-limits too.
Instead, I hit the water cooler and walk outside the building. But outside I see cute little women in suits on their own breaks drinking Diet Cokes. Although Diet Pepsi launched in 1964, I am a poster child for Diet Coke, and I would never consider switching. I did call a couple of grocery stores to ask about Tab, but it wasn’t in stock. Gee, bummer.
8:30 p.m. Back at home, the first thing I do is race to the designated corner of my apartment where I am allowed to use my phone. Then I realize I have to pick between returning calls and making dinner, because I can’t carry the phone around like a cordless. Despite my hunger, like a true gossip girl, I pick the phone.
9 p.m.-dinner. In 1970, George Foreman was merely the 1968 Olympic heavyweight boxing gold medalist. The lean, fat-reducing grilling machine he would go on to pitch in the mid-1990s was probably not something that had ever occurred to him. Unfortunately for me, this means I have to become a master of grilled cheese. I also eat soggy broccoli because I must cook it on the stove instead of my steamer. I can’t even zap the frozen kind in my microwave — as I can’t afford the average $500 cost of one in 1970.
9:30 p.m. I’m not much of a TV person, so I’m not too peeved to be missing the occasional “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” I’d normally catch.
However, Brad Pitt is staring at me from the cover of my beloved Vanity Fair (launched in 1983) — a personal obsession — and knowing that I can’t hold him close to me and pore over the words makes me very, very sad.
I can’t even find solace in my Norah Jones or Jason Mraz CDs. It has been a long time since I had a record player in my house, so busting out my mom’s old “Let It Be” album isn’t an option either. Instead I read “Anna Karenina.” Tolstoy lasts through the decades.
10:30 p.m. I vow I will never shower at night again, looking fondly at my Venus razor as I prick my legs with a Bic. But I do it anyway because I’m even more opposed to smelling bad. Not that it matters: Bath & Body Works didn’t open until 1990.
Saturday night. I cannot enjoy my standard Vodka Red Bulls. But back in 1970, my Aunt Maureen and her gal pals swore by Harvey Wallbangers — orange juice, vodka and Galliano. So, after a few Wallbangers at the bar, my longing for Red Bulls, as did my annoyance of my 1970 time warp, begins to fade.
