We women of the 1970s were born when seatbelts were not mandatory, when second hand smoke was a prerequisite, when sexism in the office was just something to tolerate. We were adolescents in the bloom of the suburban shopping mall, when actors become presidents. Unfathomable. We strapped depression in the backseats of cars with the windows cracked and the joint lit. We knew a little Hitler song; he had just one ball. We could get the pill at the clinic downtown without too much trouble, just a few questions and a pap smear. We were at war with only ourselves, and each other. We got the education we paid attention to. We owned Atari. We were asked what we wanted to be when we grow up. We were told we could be anything. And we didn't care. We believed in nothing but the power of the mighty dollar, the crystal blue night sky, and the hand of a boy on a breast. We had no religion, no initiation ritual. We lived on caffeine and soda water and French fries. We could stretch a buck. We had no comfort in our own bones but could sneak out of seven kinds of window clasps. We had Seiko watches and Lincoln Continentals from our grandparents. We were sure of denial and the price of gasoline. We confirmed ourselves by knowing only a few important things. Ignorance is bliss. We knew things would get better, not worse. Things would be okay. We'd always been told. We would be fine, if we just worked hard enough, looked pretty enough, kept happy, pressed on. There was only one ending and predictable and certain. It didn't look anything like this.

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