Celebrate the Millennium with Newmannium
A look back at the fears and anxieties on the cusp of Y2K.

Musings of an Anxious Millennial Writer #14: Puberty & Paranoia
As an only child living in an apartment building devoid of any (normal) children my age, I was often left to my own devices to create entertainment. My building largely comprised older women, who I enjoyed the company of, and preferred to any of the kids that lived nearby. There was only one girl around my age who lived in the next apartment whom I would occasionally play with. Her name was Nicole—at least that’s what we’ll call her for the sake of this story because I can’t recall her real name. I never liked or trusted Nicole. My last straw came when we were at our complex’s playground, and she persuaded me to play on the tire swing with her. I, at the tender age of seven, had a love/hate relationship with the mythical tire swing. I appreciated the use of found items to create a fun, spinny ride. However, on the flip side, I was afraid of being stuck in one, forever slowly spinning until I would inevitably slide through the middle and drown in a pool of my own tears.
So anyway, we’re in this tire swing and I asked her not to leave me alone in there. She rolled her eyes and told me she wouldn’t. The next thing I know, we’re spinning wildly with reckless abandon, when I notice her slip under my legs and through the hole in the middle. Once out, she laughed at me and ran off to undoubtedly cause more mischief on the monkey bars (which I wouldn’t dare try my small, clammy hands at). I cried out to my grandmother for help, but she was unable to get away from Nicole’s mother, who was listing all the health benefits of chain smoking and her total adoration of Camel cigarettes (a list she was still exploring five minutes later when I finally, slowly wriggled myself out of the tire swing to safety.) If there’s one thing I will remember for the rest of my life about that woman, it was her penchant for chain-smoking, often blowing smoke into the faces of myself, her children, and anyone she happened to be talking to. Also, I vividly remember her awesomely ’80s Farah Fawcett-meets-Hulk Hogan winged mullet. And her love of windbreakers. Ok, so maybe I remember more about her than her daughter, but again, I had more exposure to adults than children at this point. But this isn’t about the worst childhood friends or neighbors; it’s about what happens when you isolate yourself in your own, private world. This tire swing incident was just the moment when I decided that the best company to keep was my own.
For the next few years, my time would usually be spent playing with Barbies, reading Cam Jansen novels, watching TV, or doing chores with my grandmother. My favorite of the latter was laundry day. A trip to the laundromat always felt like an adventure. On a summer day, I’d marvel at the clothes spinning round and round, wishing I could be in there with them as if it were some kind of crazy water park ride. However, I hated the drying process. It took far too long for my liking and wasn’t as fun to watch. So, while waiting for clothes to dry, I would occupy myself the way any kid my age would: by fully immersing myself in every tabloid the laundromat’s seated waiting area had to offer. Star and the National Enquirer were not only idle fodder to pass time with but instead became required reading material. I mean, how could I NOT want to know about the Hollywood Scandals of the Century? Just waiting for laundry day wasn’t enough, I had to go out and buy them, too. But every time I reached for an issue of Star on the CVS magazine rack; I couldn’t help but notice the more eye-catching headlines staring back at me: “BAT BOY ON THE LOOSE!” “LIZARD HORROR” “GIANT CLAM KILLS WOMAN!” My mind yearned to know more. I picked up the Sun magazine and set out for answers.
It also happened to be a fun time for the “suspend disbelief” tabloids (a phrase I did not yet understand), what with the year 2000 quickly approaching and all the impending Y2K madness. Tabloid covers depicted various archaic prophecies, along with new-found Nostradamus warnings: “Year 2000 computer bug will turn machine against man!” “Hundreds of planes will fall out of the sky!” “Cars will stop dead in their tracks!” “Nuclear missiles will launch themselves!” Who cared about the everyday freaks and mutant animals when the end times were upon us? I couldn’t buy a pack of cherry pull-and-peel Twizzlers from the supermarket without being swarmed by images of the apocalypse. With even the regular news mentioning computer doom, I began to question whether I would ever live to see my 12th year. I decided it was time to get some answers and try to find solace in something.
So, I looked to the Bible. The Good Book itself. I opened to an arbitrary page in the Book of Revelation and read:
“I looked when He broke the sixth seal, and there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black sackcloth made of hair and the whole moon became like blood; and the sky fell to the earth, as a fig tree casts its unripe figs when shaken by a great wind. The sky was split apart like a scroll when it is rolled up, and every mountain and island were moved out of their places.”
I slammed the holy book shut and hid it behind our collection of Mark Twain books we had on display on our TV stand, above all the Disney and rom-com VHS tapes. Thoughts of every image of Armageddon ever depicted in those tabloids flooded my mind. What if they were right? Maybe that Nostradamus guy is on to something. It’s exactly like the Good Book says, the year 2000 will hit, all the computers of the world will reset back to the year 1900, and instead of blasting us back in time on a whirlwind adventure through history, the moon and stars will explode, and the world will be set ablaze by earthquakes everywhere. Suddenly, nothing, and nowhere felt safe to me anymore. I dreaded my sixth-grade religion class, for fear the class would veer into the territory of discussing Judgment Day. I couldn’t enjoy a grilled cheese and bacon at the diner without thinking of the street outside splitting apart. A trip to the circus in the city was overshadowed by thoughts of buildings tumbling and elephants losing it and trampling everyone in their midst. Even when New Year’s Eve came and went without the world exploding all around us, I was still suddenly made aware of an inevitable end I hadn’t ever thought of before. Not just the world’s end, but my mortality as well; and so followed many nights of sleeplessness and 3 AM panic attacks in the years to come.
I started to think of ways my own body could betray me. I couldn’t understand the tickle in my throat that would cause me to dry heave and panic every night. Suddenly, I felt everything else going wrong with my body, too. I became worried that my blinking was not adequate, so I’d over-blink to ensure that my eyelids were still functional. In my manic, eye-fluttering bouts, I’d cause some of my longer eyelashes to fold in on themselves in the corner of my eye, which just led to yet more paranoia. What if all my eyelashes follow suit and I’m left an eyelash-less freak? I’d make the cover of Sun: “GIRL WITH NO EYELASHES TERRORIZES SUBURBAN NEW YORK CITY!” Other young, lonely, panic-stricken girls would follow my lead until we’d form some eyelash-lacking gang of miscreants, wreaking havoc all over Westchester County. Which might have been pretty cool, but highly improbable. No, I’d just be the weird girl in my class (even more so than I already was), staring longingly at everyone without any eye protection from dirt and debris, which would then just gather in my eyeballs until I’d eventually lose those, too.
To prevent any eyelash-related incidents from occurring, I’d find myself playing with my lashes, often resulting in pulling many out, to which I’d then wish upon for no end times in sight. And more eyelashes. And to meet Matthew Lawrence (this was when he was more popular than Joey because of Boy Meets World). I’d then make my way up and pick at my eyebrows, too, because, why not? I became obsessed with the minute, utterly fascinated by hair and skin follicles. The eczema I’d developed between my fingers became a playground. I’d pick and chip away at the skin until my desk was covered with dead, white skin. Then, I’d move on to my head, picking away at my scalp, flooding my black top science class desk with a snowstorm of dandruff or dry skin. On a particularly balmy day, I’d have a cascade of both. Then, I’d press my finger over the scattered white pieces, clumping them all together, just to release them and see them fall upon the black again. I neither knew nor cared if people were looking. When I was doing it, it allowed me to spend a few minutes in my dead-skin bubble; my private snow globe of dandruff and xeroderma.
As much care as I had of how everyone viewed me at every point in the day vanished. My brain was shut off to everything but my obsession. The end of the world, war, why my crush refused to dance with me at the most recent birthday party at the Girl Scout cabin (could it have been the dry skin collections?)—I was numb to all of it for just those few moments of the day. The years following would throw at both myself and the world some hurdles that would have seemed impossible to get through before. But I did it. As time went on, and I found myself entering my teenage years, as awkward as I still was, I found new ways to cope with intimidating situations. I would occupy my time with other people, exploring various places, and encountering those ever-dreaded high school problems that every teenager must face. And so, I started to slowly leave those little quirks behind. Interpersonal relationships, music, reading, writing… they all became better stress relievers for me. And even when some of those, namely the first, became stress-inducers, I still managed to avoid resorting to picking.
My skin started to heal even on the coldest and driest of days. I found myself looking for adventure and travel as opposed to dreading it. It wasn’t until junior year of high school when an emotionally disturbed new student with no eyebrows or eyelashes who was perpetually laughed at would only be there for a few months until she was kicked out for threatening another student. And it wouldn’t be until years later when I found out that those “habits” I had may have had more to them than I thought. I remember watching an episode of a show on TLC called Obsessed. In this one in particular, a girl nervously and obsessively picked out the roots of her hair until she was completely bald on one side of her head. In another, a woman feared earthquakes and death and would exhibit signs of paranoia every evening. It was not until this point that I realized that all those compulsions I displayed could have in my later years classified me as having obsessive-compulsive disorder. Sure, I’m trivializing the term in even stating this, but whether or not I had OCD, I had fears inside me that I couldn’t outright tackle. They were, at very best, clear responses to trauma. I also realize that for many, these compulsions aren’t something that can just be “kicked” without professional help, especially in adults. And I’m also not saying that I’m completely devoid of any worry now, or that every time the news reminds us of war, violence, natural disasters, Lindsay Lohan, or all those signs of the end times, my stomach doesn’t sink even the tiniest bit. Nor am I saying that when I sit at an all-black desk or table, I don’t have to fight the urge to flood it with white—but I have gotten better at repressing those urges. What I have realized, though, is that the world is always going to remind you of the worst. But it’s up to you to not let it get the best of you. There’s a life to be lived instead of just an end to fear. I’ve also realized that if I have a good dandruff shampoo, a luscious-lash mascara, and a bottle of Cortizone, I’m going to be just fine. At least until the next Armageddon date is set, then all bets are off.
This was written for a reading series in Brooklyn called “The Worst!”, hosted by Cassie J. Sneider, in August 2012, and re-purposed for my Medium account in 2015, hence no mentions of all the recent Armageddon-like experiences we’ve faced in the past three years alone. But I’m still here, and the verge of every new year will always remind me of Y2K.
Happy New Year to you and yours, thanks for another year of reading my nostalgic ramblings. Let’s reflect on the past even more in 2024!