You know you were a 70s kid when these 8 activities were considered a wild weekend

Weekends looked a lot different back in the 70s.

There were no smartphones, no notifications pinging you at 10 p.m., and no algorithm deciding what you should enjoy. Fun was analog, unpredictable, and often involved a little bit of dirt, noise, and human connection.

If you grew up in that decade, you remember that excitement didn’t come pre-packaged. You had to make it happen, and when you did, it felt earned.

Here are eight things that made up what we used to call a “wild weekend.”

Let’s jump in.

1) Hitting the roller rink like it was Studio 54

There was something electric about skating under disco lights while “Le Freak” or “Stayin’ Alive” blasted through tinny speakers.

Roller rinks weren’t just hangouts. They were social ecosystems. You had the show-offs skating backward, the brave beginners hugging the wall, and the occasional DJ who thought spinning “Bohemian Rhapsody” mid-session was a power move.

If you could skate in rhythm, you were basically royalty.

It wasn’t just about skating though. It was about the energy, the lights bouncing off the mirror ball, the smell of nachos and cherry Slush Puppies, and the thrill of seeing your crush glide past you during the “couples skate.”

I used to think of the rink as a miniature version of adult nightlife. Everyone was trying on identities, cool, confident, mysterious, even if our biggest worry was not falling in front of someone we liked.

Looking back, it was freedom on four wheels.

2) Spending hours making mixtapes

Before playlists could be built with a tap, they were crafted with patience.

You’d sit cross-legged by the stereo, fingers hovering over the record and stop buttons, praying the DJ wouldn’t talk over your favorite song’s intro.

Sometimes you’d get lucky. Other times, your perfectly timed “More Than a Feeling” was interrupted by a car dealership ad.

But that was part of the art.

Every mixtape had a theme, heartbreak, rebellion, weekend vibes, or sometimes just “songs that sound good when you’re thinking.” You’d decorate the case, scribble the tracklist in your best handwriting, and maybe hand it to someone special.

Mixtapes weren’t about perfection. They were about curation, a reflection of how you saw the world.

Psychologists would now call that “emotional expression through shared media.” Back then, it was just how we said, “I get you.”

I still remember my first one. The sound quality was terrible, but it felt like holding a piece of time in my hands.

3) Going to the drive-in movies

The drive-in was the original outdoor cinema, long before it became a “retro” trend.

Families piled into station wagons, teens packed into the back of pickup trucks, and couples brought blankets and popcorn in brown paper bags.

You’d hook the metal speaker to your window and hope it didn’t buzz too much. And if it rained, you wiped the windshield and kept watching.

Drive-ins were social chaos in the best way possible. Kids ran around until the previews started, headlights flashed by mistake during the big kiss scene, and the smell of popcorn mingled with gasoline.

My parents used to bring their own snacks, what we’d now call “plant-based movie food.” Air-popped popcorn with olive oil, apple slices, and homemade trail mix. At the time, it just seemed practical.

You’d sit under the stars, maybe watch Jaws or Grease, and feel like the world was enormous and safe all at once.

That was magic.

4) Hanging out at the mall (all day)

If you were a 70s kid, the mall was your playground, classroom, and social network all rolled into one.

You’d get dropped off in the morning, spend the day drifting between record stores, food courts, and arcades, and head home with a new band poster and maybe 50 cents left in your pocket.

It wasn’t about shopping. It was about belonging.

You learned a lot about human behavior just by sitting on a bench and watching. Who was leading the group? Who was tagging along? Which stores people gravitated toward said everything about their identity.

There’s a reason so many psychology books talk about “third places,” spaces where people gather outside of work and home. The mall was that for us. It gave structure to our weekends and shaped our social awareness.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I think a lot of people today chase that same feeling with cafés and coworking spaces. It’s the same impulse. We all want a spot where life just happens around us.

5) Playing outside until the streetlights came on

You didn’t need fancy plans. You just needed daylight and a group of friends who were up for anything.

We’d ride bikes, build ramps out of scrap wood, or turn the neighborhood into a full-scale hide-and-seek battleground. Helmets were optional, scraped knees were standard, and imagination was the only currency.

There was no checking in, no texting your location. Your parents trusted you’d come home eventually, and somehow, you always did.

That kind of freedom built something psychologists now call “autonomy confidence.” You learned to manage time, risk, and friendship without anyone hovering over you.

I can still picture the glow of the streetlights flickering on, signaling it was time to head home. That moment, the soft hum of crickets, the cool evening air, the tired satisfaction of a day fully lived, might be one of the purest human feelings.

6) Hosting epic sleepovers

If you grew up in the 70s, you know a good sleepover wasn’t about sleeping.

You stayed up way past midnight, telling ghost stories, eating junk food, and laughing until someone’s parents yelled from the hallway. There were board games, pillow fights, and sometimes elaborate pranks that felt like CIA missions at the time.

Someone always brought a Ouija board, and someone else always swore they saw it move.

Sleepovers were how friendships deepened. You got to see your friends unfiltered, goofy, tired, vulnerable. Those late-night talks were the training ground for emotional intelligence, even if we didn’t have a name for it.

And in the morning, there was usually a pile of pancakes waiting, half-burnt and totally perfect.

When I think about it now, those nights taught us something important about community, the value of being fully present, no distractions, no curated version of yourself. Just people being people.

7) Taking photos that actually meant something

Back then, photography had a built-in pause button.

You’d line up a shot, check the light, and hope no one blinked. Film was expensive, so you made every click count.

After the weekend, you’d drop off the roll at the pharmacy and wait a week to see how it turned out. That waiting was part of the excitement, the delayed gratification that made memories feel tangible.

When the prints finally came back, there was joy in flipping through them, even if half were overexposed or your thumb made a cameo. You didn’t delete those photos; you kept them. They were part of the story.

Today, I still shoot with an old Canon sometimes. There’s something grounding about that limitation, the idea that not everything needs to be instant. It reminds me that moments matter because they end.

8) Listening to records from start to finish

We didn’t just consume music. We lived it.

You’d slide a record out of its sleeve, place the needle carefully, and let the room fill with warmth and crackle. No skipping, no shuffling, just full immersion.

Albums were journeys, beginning, middle, and end. You’d lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling, and let the lyrics hit you in real time.

When I first heard The Dark Side of the Moon that way, it felt like a psychological experiment, a meditation in sound. That record taught me more about attention than any productivity book ever could.

Music was sacred because it demanded patience. You couldn’t scroll past it. You had to listen.

And maybe that’s what made weekends in the 70s so different. They asked us to be present, curious, and creative with what we had.

The bottom line

A “wild weekend” in the 70s didn’t need luxury or validation. It was made of connection, to each other, to the moment, and to ourselves.

We got our dopamine from real-time experiences, not screens. And even though times have changed, there’s something timeless about that slower rhythm.

Maybe it’s worth bringing a little of it back.

Next weekend, ditch the scroll. Put on a record, grab your bike, or make a playlist that takes effort. Feel the small rituals again, the ones that used to make life feel big.

Because maybe being wild was never about noise or crowds. Maybe it was just about being alive, fully, simply, beautifully alive.