Sometime in the not-too-distant past David and I were in Target (shocking, I know) looking to buy new house phones. There was a cute vintage-y looking one that had the push buttons in a circle as if it were a rotary dial. I pointed it out to my 21st-century son and said, "Those were the phones I grew up with. Only they didn't have pushbuttons - you had to dial them."
David's brow furrowed as he examined the phone. "What do you mean, dial?" he asked, with all the professional curiosity of an archaeologist examining some recently unearthed relic.
"You know, dial," I said, attempting to pantomime the action with my finger. "There were little holes where the numbers are, see? And then you would stick your finger in the number and bring the dial around to this little stopper thing. And then you'd let go and it would go back!"
"And then what?" David asked, as if I were explaining a system as complex as that of the Navajo code talkers.
"Well, then you would stick your finger in the hole of the next number and bring that to the little stopper thingie..."
The incredulous look on his face deepened. I couldn't help feeling a tad defensive.
"Look! We only had 7 digits then, all right? And we could go really fast!"
Darn kids - you bring them up communicating at the speed of light and see what happens? David's probably thinking I grew up in the Flintstones Era (What? There wasn't one?), pushing turtle shopping carts and combing my hair with a fish skeleton.
Should I tell him that, when I was little, I totally wanted a Wilma dress?