Lisa O
The 1980s were loud, neon, and unapologetically strange. It was a decade of cassette tapes, shoulder pads, and habits that would probably cause a public relations crisis now. Safety rules were optional, technology was primitive, and no one seemed to care about cholesterol. Looking back, it’s amazing anyone survived the hairspray fumes alone.
Letting kids ride in the back of pickup trucks.
Pile in, hold tight, and hope for the best. Kids rode in truck beds down highways like human cargo, hair whipping in the wind, laughing over the roar of the engine. Nobody worried about speed limits or sudden stops. A sharp turn meant sliding into someone’s knees. It felt like freedom, not recklessness. Parents trusted common sense and luck more than safety regulations. If you survived a few bruises, you were considered tough — not endangered.
Leaving kids home alone for hours.
Being a “latchkey kid” was practically a badge of honor. You came home from school, microwaved something questionable, and watched cartoons until dinner. Parents didn’t text to check in — they trusted you to survive until they got home. No GPS trackers, no nanny cams, just a spare key under the mat. It built independence and a talent for improvising meals out of cereal and peanut butter. Now it would probably warrant a wellness check.
Riding bikes without helmets or reflective gear.
Every kid had a bike, and nobody had a helmet. You rode through traffic, down hills, and across gravel with zero protection and total confidence. Reflectors fell off early, and nobody replaced them. The occasional wipeout meant skinned knees, gravel burns, and bragging rights. Parents weren’t hovering behind, shouting reminders — they were inside, assuming you’d come home eventually. It was pure, unfiltered freedom with a hint of danger that somehow made childhood feel epic.
Smoking everywhere.
Airports, restaurants, offices, even hospital waiting rooms — cigarettes were as common as coffee. You’d walk into a diner and the first thing you noticed wasn’t the smell of pancakes, but the haze of cigarette smoke floating over every table. People smoked on airplanes as if it were a basic right. You could sit in the “non-smoking” section three feet away and still choke on the air. It wasn’t rebellion. It was adulthood, sold in soft packs.
Drinking and driving (a little).
A couple of beers after work didn’t count as “real drinking.” People drove home from bars, rolled the windows down, and called it good judgment. Seatbelts were optional, roads were dimly lit, and the idea of calling a cab felt overdramatic. The bar parking lot was full every weekend — and most of those people drove off into the night. Looking back, it’s shocking how casual it all seemed. Now it’s a crime. Back then, it was Tuesday.
Playing with fireworks in the backyard.
Backyard pyrotechnics were a summer ritual. Kids with matches and questionable supervision launched bottle rockets toward the sky — or accidentally into the neighbor’s yard. Burns, smoke, and singed eyebrows were part of the experience. Parents watched with mild amusement and a beer in hand, offering the occasional “Be careful!” as sparks rained down. Nobody wore goggles. Nobody read safety labels. If you managed to light everything without starting a small fire, you were a legend.
Talking to strangers without fear.
People stopped to help strangers on the side of the road, invited door-to-door salesmen inside for lemonade, and accepted rides from almost anyone. Hitchhikers were everywhere — scruffy, sunburned, and waving cardboard signs. There was a general belief that most people were good. “Stranger danger” was a slogan that hadn’t been invented yet. The idea of fearing everyone simply didn’t fit into that era’s worldview. We traded a lot of trust for the illusion of control.
Letting kids roam shopping malls all day.
The mall was where you learned independence. Parents dropped you off at noon with five bucks and a vague meeting time. You wandered through arcades, sampled perfume at department stores, and loitered by the fountain pretending to be older than you were. Security guards rarely intervened. Getting lost wasn’t scary — it was expected. You memorized store layouts the way kids memorize TikTok dances now. The mall wasn’t just a place to shop. It was a social education.
Wearing dangerous fashion.
The 1980s were a fire hazard in motion. Hair sprayed stiff as plastic, sleeves puffed out like balloons, and everything synthetic enough to melt under a lightbulb. Heels were high, jeans were tight, and nobody could breathe comfortably in their clothes. People ironed their outfits while still wearing them or used aerosol mousse like armor. The louder the outfit, the better. Looking cool mattered more than being safe or practical. And somehow, it worked.
Using sunbeds like therapy.
Tanning salons were the new self-care. You’d walk out smelling like coconut oil and victory, convinced your bronze glow made you healthy. Nobody mentioned UV damage or melanoma. It was just what you did to look “alive.” Summer meant lying still under a heat lamp until your skin stung. The goal wasn’t protection — it was proof that you’d been outside. Today, dermatologists hand out warnings. Back then, you just compared who got the darkest.
Driving without car seats or boosters.
Kids sat on laps in the front seat or rolled around the backseat during long drives. Toddlers stood between their parents while dad steered with one hand. Seatbelts were optional accessories, and nobody asked about airbags. You’d nap across the rear window ledge like a cat in the sun. Everyone assumed love and luck were enough to keep you safe. It’s hard to imagine now, but it was normal — and somehow, most of us lived to tell it.
Letting kids watch violent movies.
Parents rented Predator or Terminator for “family movie night.” The blood, the explosions, the language — it didn’t matter. The logic was that kids could tell fiction from reality. You learned more about courage, villains, and bad one-liners than you did from Sunday school. There was no parental control setting. If you were old enough to press “Play,” you were old enough to handle the trauma. It was the era when childhood innocence came with subtitles.
Making prank calls for fun.
You’d sit around with friends, flipping through the phone book, giggling as you dialed random numbers and asked, “Is your refrigerator running?” It was harmless mischief. Caller ID didn’t exist, and nobody could trace the number. Sometimes you got yelled at, sometimes you made someone’s evening more interesting. It was teenage humor at its cheapest — and weirdly, it brought people together. Today, it’d be recorded, reported, and flagged as harassment before you hung up.
Ignoring food allergies.
Food was simple because nobody asked questions. Peanut butter sandwiches were universal, milk came from cows, and nobody read ingredient labels. If a kid said something made them sick, adults told them to eat slower. “Gluten-free” wasn’t a term — it was a typo. Bake sales were landmines by today’s standards, yet everyone survived. The shift from “eat what’s served” to “read the fine print” might be progress, but it definitely took the spontaneity out of lunch.
Leaving doors unlocked.
People trusted their neighborhoods. They went on vacation and left their front doors open so the mailman could drop packages inside. Neighbors walked in uninvited to borrow sugar or return a casserole dish. It wasn’t seen as intrusive — it was community. Nobody had security cameras, alarm systems, or motion lights. Safety came from knowing people, not fearing them. The world felt smaller, friendlier, and a lot less paranoid.