Monday, July 02, 2007

It's a new age. One of practical shoes.

I met a friend at The Croc on Saturday night to see the final The Divorce show. We'd been invited by a work colleague, who happens to be dating one of the now late Divorcees. (Actually, she'd been invited by the work colleague - I just tagged along.) It's been a while since I've seen a show at The Croc, but I didn't realize it'd been that long. Just how long has it been, you ask? The last time, I was young.

My first clue that a distinct change had occurred since my last visit: I was tempted to see the all-ages 4:00 show, rather than stay out until closing time to catch the late, late (10:00) show. The second clue: I felt absolutely no obligation to shave my legs for the occasion. The third clue: My comfortable ballet flats were surrounded by the 4-inch heels of my fellow concert goers.

Upon entering the bar, I couldn't help but notice how my half-hearted attempt at fashion paled next to the trendy digs of the hipsters. But that's okay, because what I lacked in trend, I made up for in glow. I didn't take into account the distinct likelihood of black lighting when I dressed, and my black and white striped shirt turned me into a veritable beacon. A beacon for what? A beacon for frat boys. Ones that use pick-up lines like: "Do you know what the tattoo on your back means?" And while I politely stifled the urge to answer with a sarcastic, "No, do you?" my opportunistic friend jumped in with an enthusiastic, "It means 'slut' in Chinese."

With a beginning like that, you know the rest of the night is going to be great. I'm not sure what the highlight was: the irony of the couple that chose to renew their vows before The Divorce took the stage; the nearly full beer dumped on my aforementioned comfortable ballet flats; the guy dressed in vinyl; the fashionista walking around with toilet paper stuck to her shoe; my friend announcing that she'd shaved her pits just so that she could raise her arms high over her head and 'woo-hoo' at the band.

But back to me and feeling old...

More than my tired eyes; more than my faltering fashion; more than my irritability at loud, drunk frat boys; more than the discovery that my dear work colleague is a mere 23 years old, it was this conversation with the fledgling that sealed the deal:

"You guys don't have purses. Where's all your stuff?"

"My pockets are loaded. My phone's over here, my cash is here, and my car keys are here."

"Doesn't that make your jeans all lumpy?"


"Doesn't that bug you?"

"Meh. I care enough to check in the mirror and note that it looks lumpy. But not enough to do anything about it."

When a woman ceases to care whether or not her ass looks lumpy, she knows her youth is gone.

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