I was only allowed to ride my bike on the cul-de-sac behind our house and, of course, I always had to wear a helmet. (Once, my mom even made me and my sister wear helmets INSIDE. Tornado warning. The stress of being crammed into the basement powder room with our bike helmets must have really affected my sister. She totally tossed her cookies.)
Every morning before school, my mom walked me to the bus stop (2 houses down the street) until I was old enough to realize that this was SO EMBARRASSING that I begged her to stop. So as a compromise, I walked to the bus stop like a big kid, alone, and my mom stuck her head out the door--watching to be sure that I got on the bus safely. Much better.
Well into my teens, I still wasn't allowed to go to the mall without parental supervision.
And R-rated movies? Uh uh.
I don't remember ever being as upset about not being allowed to see an R-rated as I was about my parents sending me to bed while they watched "The Bodyguard" on HBO.
Excuuuuuuse me. I might have only been nine-years-old, but I knew Whitney was a goddess. (Emphasis on was. Sorry, Whitney. I saw your reality show. Eek!) I had The Bodyguard soundtrack on cassette, which I blasted in my walkman that was bedecked in stick-on gem earrings.
I pitched a fit. I cried. I stomped. It was SO! UNFAIR! I threw myself on my bed and cried the whole time my parents watched the movie in the other room. Or maybe I just cried until I thought they weren't listening to me cry anymore. At that point, I likely retreated to the Barbie Dream House (the one with the elevator) and took out my rage on Western Fun Barbie.
I want you and your damn horse out of my FACE!
Anyhow. It just came to my attention that here I am, approaching my 28th birthday, and I STILL haven't seen the movie! Methinks it's about time that I serve my nine-year-old self some justice, Netflix-style. (It's streaming. My nine-year-old self is astounded with how far technology has come. Be kind, rewind.)