The 1992 Super Bowl is still etched in my memory, not in sepia tones but vivid Technicolor. I couldn’t tell you who won, or even played (the Redskins bested the Bills, for those keeping score). I was 10 years old—too old for toys, too young for dating. My family, including cousins, uncles and grandparents, sat huddled in our Omaha basement, a blizzard blowing furiously outside. Suddenly, Cindy Crawford sped into our lives, her cherry-red Ferrari Testarossa kicking up dust.