Too Fucking Old for this Shit

Last night, after sitting through the BTW graduation ceremony (stupid smart kids with all of them graduating), D and I decided to go to Majestic. While walking in, I mused aloud, not really thinking about it that hard, how old we'd be when we were "too old for this."

A woman says to the universe,
"Sir, am I too old?"
The universe replied
"Yes."

The first clue came when I was talking to some cool people I met out on the porch. They were fun, interesting, and liked the same stuff I do. I can't recall why, but for some reason I remarked "Ok, seriously, don't tell me you're, like, 21." One smiled beatifically and said "Hey! It's my birthday today and I'm 22! So no!" To which his friend replied "Oh, come on, what, are you like twenty-six or something?" Then they laughed at how unspeakably old 26 is. Which I was two years ago. Great.

On its heels came the real shocker. As you (most) all know, Majestic employs a delightful selection of shirtless eye candy as the bar and wait staff. One such stripped young man approached our table to take away some empties. As he reached for my empty vodka tonic, our eyes met and we exchanged a look of fear and terror: I teach that kid! "Kevin?" I gasped (not his real name). He didn't speak, just gave a frightened "I didn't see you if you didn't see me" head shake and ran off. The next time he came out, he was wearing a t-shirt.

I was reeling. We polished off more drinks and the evening and while contemplating these events, I got the death blow. On a 3 a.m. infomercial, Sugar Ray was shilling a box set of the 120 greatest "new rock" hits that "bring back those great memories." Every. Goddam. Song. was what I listened to in high school.

So I guess I'll trade in my cute plaid knee shorts and McNellie's tee for some high waisted flowered capris and a cap sleeve, scoop neck tucked in Ann Taylor twinset. Maybe I'll get some Crocs. I'm probably already spontaneously pregnant with a child named after a northern state or an ancestor's last name that has ADHD and a peanut allergy. I'll start freaking out about everything and quit hanging out with black people. We'll move somewhere that the streets have at least two, preferably three digits and there's no plaster for little Darden Montana to get under his fingernail. MS will no longer participate in the care and upkeep of our household and I'll suddenly weigh about 100 lbs less, but still obsess over my "trouble spots" at pilates (but not the pilates at the Y because there are homeless people there), thinking that maybe if I'm pretty enough he'll stop watching football and playing Halo 3 long enough to let me take a shower. I'll straighten my hair, get a layered bob, bleach it, and wear turquoise jewelry and the stuff they sell at Mayfest (not Bluedome. In fact, I will never go to Bluedome again). I'll join Weight Watchers. I'll only drink pink wine. I'll feel "so bad" for having Starbucks. I'll like Starbucks. I won't let men be nice to my kids because someone was once a molester one time and it was on PrimeTime Live.

Fuck it, dude. I'll just have to be the old lady at the gay bar.