The only time time ever felt like it was passing at an acceptable pace was during high school. High school felt like a full 4 years – not slower, and definitely not faster. Each year was distinguished by the appropriate awkward attire of the era (Freshman year = I’m Aaliyah! Let’s wear black spandex skirts with slits up to our crotches!, Senior year = I’m in a Paparoach video! Let’s wear black eyeliner and black chokers and not wash our hair!), and felt every bit as long as its 9 months should. Elementary – middle school, on the other hand, felt agonizingly slow. How could it only be 1:15 when I’ve already gotten hit in the face during recess dodge ball, presented a book report on Johnny Tremain, and recited the first 12 chapters of Luther’s Catechism? Geez.
Quite the contrary, everything post high school has felt like I’ve perpetually been on speed, with the exception of 3 hour seminars in college or 2 hour work meetings, which actually feel like someone is ripping off each of my toenails one by one for the duration of an entire year. No matter how boring or epic my days, weeks, or months are, they all have one thing in common – they go by really fast.
I’m 26. I’ve been feeling my age ever since all of my friends started getting married, and especially when my aunts and uncles tell me that my ovaries won’t wait forever. I’m also reminded that I’m not quite a spring chicken anymore when I frequent my old stomping grounds, the clubs.
On Saturday night I got all decked out – dress (unheard of), heels (really, never happens except at weddings and funerals) and earrings (WTF). It was girls’ night out. I was ready to go. We arrived at the douchiest club in San Francisco, Manor West, and got ready to dance and fend off creepers like it was our job. We’re old pros at this, and we couldn’t wait.
But something had changed. The music was great, the dancing was still fun. But little things started bothering me that wouldn’t have a few years back. Like the bleach blonde girl who shoved me across the dance floor while me telling me to get out of her corner. Sure, I was dancing like a flailing maniac, but it’s a club. Go do Darrin’s Dance Grooves in your living room if you can’t handle it.
And then there were the guys. Fending them off usually isn’t a problem. You just grab the hands of a girlfriend and pretend you’re a lesbian, and it’s fun. But this time, it really wasn’t. I was just exhausted. I was sick of pretending to be a lesbian just to dance.
This got me thinking – what do old people do for fun? I imagine they go to wine bars where they sip an oakey Merlot with blackberry notes, or have subdued get-togethers in their large homes where everyone sits in a circle talking and laughing about things that aren’t really funny. Or they talk about their stretch marks. Or babies.
I’m getting old and it’s depressing. I can’t even talk about it anymore. I’m just going to go make myself some Jello, watch QVC, and call it a night.