Back when I was a kid, the ol’ thumbs-up was koolamundo. That’s all because of Arthur Fonzerelli, who defined coolness throughout the late 1970s and early 80s. The snazzy hair. The leather jacket and boots. The T-shirt. Hitting a jukebox and having music instantly played. All as cool as cool does.
And yet, in the ensuing years, the Fonz was no longer cool. He became an old man in a leather jacket, hitting on high school chicks who laughed at his bizarre lingo and mounting potbelly. People stopped hitting jukeboxes. Then jukeboxes vanished all together. You’d be pretty stupid to hit your iPod.
This is a long way of saying that I hadn’t given the thumbs-up sign in years.
And now I can’t stop.
I blame my son. His name is Emmett, and he’s 3. When he likes food, he gives it a thumbs up. When he really likes a food, double thumbs up. His thumbs get more action than his feet, which is saying something for a kid who runs around all day.
The odd thing about having children is that, even though they learn from you, you end up copying them. Phrases and quirks and such. So tonight, when the IHOP waitress asked whether I was happy with my eggs, I didn’t say yes or no.
Just the standard thumbs-up.