Tequila shooters, Broken Down Golf Carts and Cement Mixers gave way to a full-bodied chianti and the conversation centered on work, kids, and biological clocks instead of hook-ups, student loans and wedding plans.
Everyone silently cheered that dinner was over before 11 pm so that we could all be home and in bed before the stroke of midnight. We know there is no magic in being out past the stroke of midnight just brutally long mornings with whiney kids and/or clients.
While walking out of the restaurant we had to pass through the lobby bar. It was brimming with so many scantily clad 20- somethings that when I looked down at what I was wearing, I felt like I was channeling my inner-Amish.
It wasn’t just the sartorial differences or the gaping abyss between sobriety and inebriation that reminded me that I am
older more mature, it was the commentary from my friends:
“Wow, you can smell the desperation in here”.
“I think that girl forgot to put on her pants. Oh look, apparently no one wears pants anymore.”
“What’s with the weird facial hair? That guy needs to trim his side burns.”
Just a few days later, as I was listening to 90’s on 9, XM radio, each song a nostalgic trip down memory lane, it hit me.
I have officially become my parents: I listen to music that is 20 years old, and question the fashion choices of “youth”.
When did it strike you that you are not necessarily as “young as you feel”?
photo credit: bookrenter.com