It was the summer of 1999.

My mom had just dropped me off at day camp at the local JCC. The sun was already beating down, and the blacktop outside the gymnasium shimmered with heat.

I had my Lisa Frank notebook, an extra scrunchie around my wrist, and a lunchbox filled with what I looked forward to all morning: a mini-hot dog Lunchables, a packet of Dunkaroos, and a Capri Sun.

After carefully stabbing the straw through the foil pouch, I'd suck it down like I had been stranded in the desert.

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Then I'd fold the empty Capri Sun into a rectangle and pretend it was a flip phone, wedging it between my shoulder and ear as I strutted around the picnic table like I was deep in conversation.

To five-year-old me, this was peak cool.

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