Wow, am I old. I don't necessarily mourn the fact that I am aging, it comes with some pretty good perks - wisdom, (not that I'm cornering the market on that one yet), the knowledge that skirts should never fall between the knee and ankle, and the ability to carry off a trench coat and Jackie-O sunglasses without looking like I'm wearing a costume. But the reality of my advancing years can hit me like a smack in the face sometimes and I had such an experience this weekend.
H and I were out in the city for a birthday party and on our way home, tipsy, we decided to stop in our old it's-Saturday-night-and-we're-wasted haunt, Johnny Rockets, for some cheese fries with a side of indigestion for the next morning. While it was still early by the standards of the young and childless, twelve-thirty to be exact, the place was still crawling with young'uns, the boys in the current Saturday night uniform of pressed, oddly European-seeming dress shirts with distressed jeans and the girls in leggings and heels so high I wondered whether their monthly cab fare was higher than their rent*. But what I was most surprised by was how young they all seemed to me. They were all drunk so they had to be over twenty-one, but they might as well have been fifteen in my book.
It was surprising to me because I still feel about twenty-seven and that's not much older than the babies I was eating burgers with. So the question becomes, when will I feel old and is that a problem? I know my body will reflect the onward march of time, but I don't think my mind will for a while. What happens in ten years when it really is weird for H and I to go to a bar where most patrons are too young to know Brett Michaels wasn't always the weave-wearing, fished-lipped, hot mess looking for a girlfriend on Rock of Love, but used to be in an actual band that played actual music and had actual fans (myself not included, as any affinity I had for "Talk Dirty to Me" has been obliterated by Hubby's replaying trying to get to the next level of Guitar Hero)? I can't imagine I will lose my love of dancing any time soon. Will I be that creepy old lady on the dance floor? It's too sad to contemplate that at some point my only Saturday nights out that include drinks and dancing will also probably involve bad wedding food. I'll be "Crazy Aunt Mary" who the neices and nephews all run away from.
Maybe this is the modern dilemma since no one wants to get old - hence the plastic surgery boom. But at some point we have to make way for the truly young and not just the young at heart. Nothing can make young people feel weirder than grandma on the next barstool - don't kill their buzz. I will just have to relegate my dancing to said catered affairs and the confines of my own home. Which H will love so I can stop dragging him on the dance floor. Who knows, if we find a house big enough monthly dance parties at Chez Mean Mommy might become the new hot ticket in the 'burbs.
*In my day we had the sense to wear practical, unflattering, stacked heels and high-waisted jeans
1 comment:
There is no need to EVER take the dance party private. But, if you do: I'll spin the '80s tunes and promise to close the evening not with New York, New York, but Bono channeling The King. Cost shouldn't be a problem, I work for beer and late night turkey clubs.
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