For a long, long time, records were a big part of my life. My parents had gobs of 33s—so many that my mother commissioned a friend to make her a piece of furniture to serve the dual purpose of holding them all and serving as a coffee table. She still has it; it’s still full of ancient discs with covers ranging from obvious to arcane. It’s a gorgeous piece of furniture, although it’s long rectangular shape did lead childhood friends of mine to ask if it was a coffin for two, and lord help the person who stumbles over it; they are likely to break a toe. My parents also had a few 78s that I don’t think I ever heard played because we didn’t have a turntable that could handle it.

But to my knowledge, they didn’t have any 45s. I spent years mystified by the purpose of the little round gizmo on the turntable that nobody ever touched; it just sat in its little grooved home and got the dust blown off it periodically.

I got my own personal record player somewhere around age 4. My mother got tired of playing Sesame Street records on her equipment, and I was strictly forbidden to go anywhere near that Very Expensive Needle That Could Do Very Expensive Damage. It was a huge occasion for me; for one thing, it meant aural autonomy in my own bedroom. For another, it wasn’t even my birthday; this gift just showed up out of nowhere. It was a dinky all-in-one thing the turntable was black, the face was white, the casing was baby blue and the two pieces were held together with a red plastic band. I remember wondering where the speakers were and being tickled to death when my dad told me they were under the turntable. (My dad was a big music lover and had played bass in a band, so for years we had a set of speakers in cabinets that were something like four and a half feet tall—I think I was 6 before I could see the tops of them.) Anyway, this little wonder of mine also had a mysterious disc. I never asked what it was for; I think I had internalized that it was just another needed piece that I didn’t understand, the same way I didn’t understand how electricity worked or what made the turntable spin.

(This recollection really isn’t complete without a paean to the bonanza of Disney Little Long-Playing Records that my parents gave me when I was six, but those weren’t 45s and I really should get to the point here.)

So, right, I was in third grade when I discovered 45s. I was at my friend Beth’s house when she marched right into her mom’s living room, flung open the stereo cabinet, and tossed “Driving My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbit on to the turntable—which had that weird little circle sitting on it to fill the giant hole of this adorable little disc that looked a lot like my Disney records of yore, but so, so different. What sorcery was this?

I went home and confronted my mom. She (1) laughed at me and (2) explained that in our family, we did not buy 45s because it was generally more cost-effective and interesting to buy the entire album, not one measly song.

And so, the only 45s I ever acquired were from friends. I think the first one I got was “Working in the Coal Mine” by Devo. It was a birthday gift from my friend Kristin, and I have no idea if she ever even heard the song; she just knew I liked Devo. But they came thick and fast for a little while after that—“Land Down Under” by Men at Work, “Mickey” by Toni Basil, through “Nobody” by Sylvia and straight on into “Ebony and Ivory” by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. All the stuff of pre-karaoke sing-in-your-hairbrush slumber parties and afterschool best-friend bedroom confessionals.

I am pretty sure I still have every 45 anyone ever bought for me: It’s a grand total of ten. Part of this low number is because I realized my mom was right and albums were better, but another part of it is because technology changed 37 times after that. I know I owned several cassingles—remember those?—but I didn’t hold on to any of them, the quality was so awful after endless play/rewind/play treatment. And I think I only have a couple CD singles after a great purge to the used music store when we left Virginia. I should probably get rid of the records, but for some reason I can’t bear to do it. I barely listen to them; everything streams from my phone into my car speakers now. And I don’t miss record scratches, or memorizing songs wrong because of said scratches. But I do miss slumber parties and dancing in my bedroom and knowing that every person in my social circle also knew all the words to the same songs.