Esther McCarthy: These are the nostalgic trends I will resist with all my menopausey might
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
Nostalgia is all the rage these days.
Which is fine when it was I in the flush of youth’s bloom, and it’s my generation thinking it’s cool to bring back dog tags, and tie and dye, and mood rings, and be into The Doors and watching problematic American sitcoms like and not realising you may be internalising the horrifying misogyny disguised by a laugh track.
But it’s not so much craic when it’s young people aping our memories for inspo and trends.
Feck off outta dat, and stop bringing back flares from the ’90s — we already appropriated them from the 1960s, it’s been done. Let us be the unoriginal ones, not ye. Pups.
Stop wearing Blondie T-shirts and making up new names for new . If Wolf isn’t there, it isn’t Gladiators ’kay?
And while you’re at it, stop wearing slogan tees ironically; it’s really annoying.
It reached peak nostalgia nuttiness for me when I saw the Oasis boyos selling out concerts for ten billionty euro a ticket just so Jason from Mayo can don his bucket hat with a side of swagger and pretend he’s 18 again.
Everywhere I look at the moment, the past is being reheated and served up to me with a side of sentimentality. And I don’t like it. Stop it at once. It’s making me feel old.
Sure, I like to wistfully rehash the good old days to my kids now and then. Simpler times, when I thought I was the height of fashion with my suede beetle-crushers, bomber jacket, and a perm that could pick up Radio Caroline.
Remember when Snickers were Marathons and you’d get more than a bite and a half out of them?
When a birthday party meant a glass of Sodastream and a game of pass the parcel, with a little bouncy ball in the middle of it, or maybe one magic marker?
Not two hours of lion taming, followed by an artisan pizza-making class, a hot air balloon ride, a cameo message from Harry and Meghan, and the birthday person’s name written in Minstrels on a giant gluten-free cookie.
We were lucky to get one Minstrel, once a year, and you’d softly suck it so it would last the whole of an Indiana Jones film.
So here are my lines in the sand. Trends and things that people (who are they anyway? Is it Kate Moss and Jason Donovan and Cher sitting on bean bags in a panic room somewhere jotting down ideas?) are determined to bring back to the zeitgeist, which I intend to resist with all my menopausey might.
Just when you thought it was safe to walk barefoot to the tub, apparently the bathroom carpet is in real danger of making a comeback.
“Done sympathetically and practically, they can feel oh-so cosy and charming,” insists a recent article in magazine.
Louise Jones, founder of the interior design company Fairfax Jones, told the publication: “I love carpets in the bathroom! Soft underfoot and warm during chilly winter months … as long as you use bath mats and open the windows from time to time, you’re fine.”
That might be all well and good for you, Louise, and more power to ya, girl, but I live in a house with four willies attached to four human males.
A cracked window and an auld chenille bath mat ain’t going to do it for me. They’ll be trying to convince us next that a roll of loo paper simply must be dressed with a crocheted doll dress, and a toilet seat without a furry cover is déclassé.
The Spice Girls, I’m looking at ye.
Poor Baby Spice drawing the pension dancing around the stage in pigtails and a panic button.
Sporty and Scary will be there, struggling to do their signature high kicks with trick hips. Ginger Spice will be full-on grey as Gandalf, and Posh Spice… well, we all know she won’t be there anyway.
Just leave it to the Boyzones and the Westlifes and the NSYNCs, ladies. Ye don’t need to do this for us. We can manifest the girl power message into middle age zero fecks left to give on our own. We salute you.
Because when it comes down to it, timing is everything, right? And maybe that’s what getting older really means — watching the world repeat itself and trying not to shout: “I told you so! I tried to warn you! A perm ruins your hair forever!”
Sure, look it, the young ones will have their turn at nostalgia soon enough. In 20 years, they’ll be all misty-eyed over air fryers, and standing desks, and disproportionately-sized Stanley cups and Taylor Swift’s showgirl era, and I’ll be cackling away, soiling myself in some snazzy jeggings.
