There comes a time in every reporter’s life when everything slows down. Things aren’t like they used to be, and pants don’t quite fit anymore. It’s a time of reflection to a more familiar, bloom-lit place, where if someone said he was going to “shove some nerds into his locker,” he was referring to candy storage, and candy storage only.

I was nine years old when I first saw “Grease.” I remember that it was on VHS, and I had to watch it in the basement, because the upstairs TV didn’t have a VCR. There wasn’t a couch downstairs, and I had to bring down piles of blankets and pillows, because the linoleum floor was freezing. I took the movie and, as they used to say, popped it in.

I can’t remember what I was thinking when I watched “Grease” for the first time, but I know that when it was all sung and done, a few things felt different. I’d never really thought about high school before “Grease;” Arthur and Mr. Ratburn’s class was more my scene. I thought that “Grease” was my introduction to the many awesome things I should expect to happen to me in high school, like the prospect of racing on Thunder Road.

Of course, I never could find a proper version of Thunder Road; Wydown Boulevard was about as close as I ever got. But there was the still the opportunity for driving, right? Well, yes, six years later I could drive, but even then, my parents had to tag along, and I wasn’t about to drag them to “Thunder Road,” and when I finally got my full license, I found out that the cops had already staked Wydown out, and that street racing was technically illegal.

But “Grease” didn’t stop there; it continued to feed me lies about high school. For instance, there was never any singing in high school. Can you believe that? None, whatsoever. Also, the end of the school year did not bring about a giant carnival, our dances were never broadcast on national television, and wearing your hair like Danny Zucko only leaves you mocked and confused. 

Danny takes me to the worst thing “Grease” ever did to me: introduce me to John Travolta. To be clear, I love Travolta, I think he’s a great actor, but you have to understand, I saw the movie in 1998, 20 years after its original release, and 20 years ago, Travolta looked much more…fit.

Being nine years-old, I didn’t realize that the Travolta I saw on my TV wasn’t the Travolta of my time, a decidedly more heavyset individual. “Pulp Fiction” really slapped that in my face, and I theorized that Travolta had somehow aged abnormally, too quickly. I began to worry if that would happen to me, if someday I would wake up to find myself in my fifties.

When my mom told me that “Grease” was an old movie and that John Travolta had aged naturally, I felt a great weight lift off my chest. I thought to myself, well, he may not have his youthful looks anymore, but at least he has his singing voice. That’s when I saw “Hairspray,” and I was abruptly stranded at the drive-in.