When I heard Michael Jackson died, I felt like part of my youth had permanently disappeared.

For me, learning of his death is now one of those moments where I’ll always remember what I was doing at the time. I was at Kohl’s, looking for shoes. I had to put down the Dana Buchman flats and fire up my BlackBerry to make sure what I overheard was, in fact, true.

Being a forty-something woman, Michael’s music was a huge part of my teenage and college years. I went through a phase where I wanted to be a “Thriller” dancer. I practiced that damn Moon Walk for hours after seeing him slide backwards during a “Billie Jean” performance. I consumed alcohol more than once listening to “Bad.” The jukebox (yes; I am dating myself now) at my favorite neighborhood pub had lots of classic Jackson Five tunes.

And, who could forget the lip-sync in college where my whole sorority performed “We are the World.” I was Ray Charles. Ah, good times. Why we didn’t win that talent show, I’ll never know.

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