The other night I was in a dive bar in Brooklyn where I observed the following exchange:
Drunk girl (to bartender): “Hold old do you think I am?”
Bartender: “Uh…23 or 24?”
Drunk girl: “Ughhhh. I’m 24?”
Bartender: “And that’s bad?”
Drunk girl: “I was hoping you’d say 22.”
Bartender: “Is 22 that different from 24?”
Drunk girl: “22 is young. 24 is so old.”
Now, I’m aware that I have, on occasion, complained about being old, or getting upset over birthdays. We’re all guilty of doing that at some point. I hope I wasn’t doing it at 24.
Coincidentally, this took place shortly after I had a conversation with a friend who just turned 30. I mused about younger friends who think their youth is a badge of honor. Newsflash: age is one thing you definitely cannot control. And guess what: you’re 24 now, but you’re going to be 25 next year, and in six years, horror of horrors…30. Everybody is every age until death.
Nobody loves getting older after 21, except my dad, who is counting down the days until his 65th birthday when he will reap all the benefits of being a senior citizen. For the record, it’s over a year away, but he already has a list memorized. The supermarket in my hometown gives a discount to shoppers over the age of 55 on Tuesdays. Apparently you have to identify yourself as a senior citizen. My dad goes every Tuesday.
That said, I just really want to have my shit together by the time I turn 30.