Published: June 30, 2009 04:07 pm      

Nothing but a number

Chelsea McGowan, Democrat Staff Writer

Every once in a while, I catch myself sounding a bit like a silly old lady. It’s not too often... but in my mid-20s, I probably shouldn’t ever sound like an old lady.

I’ll admit, I think twittering, or tweeting, or whatever it is, is really ridiculous. I don’t understand the appeal, and have been made fun of by my much-hipper friends who think it’s all the rage.

I’m guilty of comparing things to the way they were “when I was a kid”, especially when it comes to prices. When I got my first car, I could drive on it all week for 15 bucks. My car now gets outstanding gas mileage, but 15 bucks will make one trip to my office and back. And when I gripe about this, I sound old.

I’m not very up-to-speed on the hot TV shows, either. I’ll fully admit my obsession with “LOST”... but my Dad has the same obsession. I hear people talk about “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Gossip Girl” and “Desperate Housewives”, and I haven’t the foggiest idea what any of them are about. But hey, every once in a while, I can find reruns of “Mad About You” on TVLand. Nothing like a 17-year-old sitcom to brighten my day... like a perfectly-broken-in-pair of sweatpants.

Speaking of sweatpants, my evening wardrobe might be another indicator that I’m aging. Not too many years ago, I’d come home from work on a Friday night and immediately change my clothes. In those days, the change would involve something a little skimpier, and usually include the application of extra makeup, before I headed out on the town.

These days, I still have busy weekends and late nights. But as many of them as possible include sweatpants, or at least my husband’s oldest t-shirt. My little black dress might actually be collecting dust at this point.

I decided last week that I needed to combat this rapid, disproportionate aging. Luckily, I had a ready-made opportunity to go out and shimmy like the old days. My favorite hometown band from my college years was playing a show just 20 miles away from my house, with all but one of the members I know and love. My best girlfriend was free that night. Oh yeah, total girls night!

What I didn’t take into account was that while the band may be the same, the bar may be the same, the town may be the same... I am not the same.

For instance, 11:30 p.m. is far later than it used to be. I rarely sleep, but I still like to be in my pajamas and settled down at my desk by that time of night. Somehow, I’d forgotten that headlining bands don’t generally take the stage until 11:30. No worries... nothing Red Bull can’t fix.

I also didn’t consider the crowd. Back in the day, when I spent far too many nights at this bar rather than studying, I knew everyone there. It was like my own personal “Cheers”. I could hop table to table, chatting with folks, and enjoying myself. I guess I thought I’d walk in and all those familiar faces would have just been hanging around the pool tables, waiting for me to return. To my shock, they were not. In their place were children I’d never seen.

Yes. Children! Well, ok. Not children. They were all at least 18, and judging by the beverage choices of most of them, I believe they were mostly 21 and up. But children, nonetheless. I don’t think I’ve ever felt older than when I looked around and recognized the age difference between myself and the average patron of a college-town bar on Saturday night.

The depression subsided when the music started. Oh, the music. The music is the same. I danced and I sang, and I had a blast. During the set, there was no difference between me and the other people on the dance floor. What a great feeling!

Then the music ended, and it’s 1 a.m., and I’m so exhausted I can barely stand up. My best friend and I walk to our cars, eager to go home and crawl into bed next to our sleeping husbands. And all around us, these bright young things are planning the rest of their nights. To them, 1 a.m. is just the beginning. I remember that.

On the 20 mile drive home, I kind of felt sorry for myself. When did my life get so boring? Was I really ready to give up that life of freedom and fun and constant change? Did I regret marriage and children? Was I where I wanted to be?

Heavy questions, my friends.

And I can tell you emphatically that I know the answer. Because at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning, when my bed-headed six-year-old jumps in bed with his Mommy and Daddy singing at the top of his lungs, I am where I want to be. When I’m able to roll out of bed at that hour headache-free and enjoy breakfast with my husband, I am where I want to be. When my waking hours are filled with challenging, productive endeavors that further my career and teach me about the world, I am where I want to be.

So maybe I’m an old lady compared to the latest crop of groupies at my old college haunt. But the more I think about it, the more I wish it for them. Because oh, how happy they’re going to be when they get old, too.