My friend Lynn and I were deep into the pointless exercise of wondering how different our lives would be if only we had done this instead of that.

It’s not that either of us were one bad mistake away from a whole new world. We were dozens and dozens of little butterfly decisions away from a wildly changed outcome.

Remember that story about the time traveler who flew back eons (I don’t think it was in a DeLorean) and accidentally stepped on a butterfly, which rewrote the entire course of history?

In that tale, the new present day erupted into dystopia while we imagine our butterfly what-ifs would have led to utopia. Or at least I’d be driving a Corvette instead of a Fusion.

But what if we could go back? What if I could have stopped young me from wearing that shirt with those pants? What if I really could change history so that I never uttered that stupid remark that’s haunted me for 50-some years?

Turn back time to about two months ago, and you’ll stumble over that social media trend of “Mom, what were you like in the ’90s?”

What follows is a montage of photos whirring along showing said moms as hot, sexy, famous teenage celebrities who now are old married people with a couple of kids and a mortgage.

Unlike them, I was already into my 30s in the ’90s with a wife, two kids, a fleet of cats and rent. My brain thought I was still strong in my 20s while my body ached to feel as flexible as it did back in the ’60s.

Now it’s the ’20s, I’m in my 60s, and when someone asks what I was like in the ’90s, I’m not sure if they mean the 1990s or if they think I’m in my 100s.

Some days, it feels like that last one. I’m a one-man band getting out of bed in the morning as various joints snap, crackle and pop, keeping an imperfect beat behind the chorus of moans, groans, oofs and ouches as I hobble to the bathroom even before my back has had a chance to stretch out and straightened up into its normal slouch.

Way back in 1989, Cher released one of her biggest hits, “If I Could Turn Back Time.” She was a mere lass of 43 when she delivered that wistful wish for a do-over.

But if we went back and made sure that we didn’t wedge that Hank Aaron card between our bicycle spokes or to change our answer at the altar from “I do” to “I don’t think so,” would we really want to? Would we want to crush that butterfly and forfeit all the good stuff, like kids, friends, pets and shows binge watched?

Can we even remember back that far?

Tom, my best friend from high school, last week zapped a short and bittersweet message: “I miss my 1960s!!! — ’nuff said.”

I think back a lot on the 1970s, but yeah, the 1960s is when we really were kids and the toys were cool and our world was carefree. There was a whole lot of turmoil and tragedy going on in the 1960s, but to us, it was Saturday morning cartoons, bicycles with banana seats that flew us anywhere, Thingmakers, G.I. Joes and Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.

We didn’t have cellphones, video games or streaming, but what a blast it was to splash about and catch crawdads, tadpoles and salamanders in the stream.

Maybe these are rose-colored glasses that I’m wearing, but back then, nothing on my body throbbed, twinged or spasmed, I didn’t pay taxes, and pop bottles picked up from the side of the road could net a kid enough deposit money to buy a 10-cent comic book AND a 5-cent balsa wood airplane.

Even into the 1970s, when I was 16, I was happy. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. Those were the good old days. As for today — today is tomorrow’s good old days.

If I could turn back time, I’d tell that little kid running around on the farm in the 1960s that he has no idea how wonderful his life is. And maybe that little kid would remind this wrinkly old grownup that it ain’t so bad to be alive now, either — especially if you still have your View-Master, Etch-A-Sketch and Silly Putty.

Oh, and be careful around that butterfly.

Cole was going to tell you a joke about time travel, but you didn’t like it. Remember when with him at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.