Nineteen-and-eighty-six, earning only $5.15 an hour, residing in poverty, loving every moment. A bag of Ruffle potato chips, 8 pieces of chicken, 6 cans of cherry Coca-Cola, three dollars and ninety-nine cents per day, living like Kings and Queens.
The sweet life at twenty-six years, sun in our faces, wind through our hair, searching for that next big thing, the coming fad. Blessed ignorance.
The poverty line, like our waistlines, has moved since those days. That bag of chips now $5.29, more air than chip, more than we were making per hour, back when we had more hair, and less worry about skin cancer.