Return to Sender: Old Is the New Young

I realized recently that I don’t listen to a lot of new music lately. Part of that is my dislike and distrust of most radio stations. Part of it is also that whole aging thing. My mom had warned me that that happens, sometimes. (Mom is notoriously hard to introduce to new music. But when you look at her album collection from the sixties and seventies, you can see that that wasn’t always the case.) I can already picture myself playing “Semi-Charmed Life” to my kids (the clean version, natch), and telling them how important that song was to me. When I was thirteen. And had no clue what a “bump” was. Not that I’ll tell them, either. And God help us all when Britney Spears starts showing up on “oldies” or “classic rock” stations. Talking about my hatred of “Sometimes” will probably sound a lot like my mother, talking about her hatred of “The Leader of the Pack.”

But that’s not even what’s really making me feel old all of a sudden.

When I go out with my girlfriends, men in their thirties take notice. That’s not new. We used to brush them off as cradle robbers with proclivities for schoolgirls, and refuse their offers for free drinks.

What’s new is that now, instead of running to the other end of the bar and giggling about the dirty old pervs, we’re accepting the drinks. For the first time in my life, I’m actually looking for wedding rings, or the absence thereof, when men introduce themselves to me. I’ve always been interested in older men, but that always used to mean “twenty-seven, twenty-eight, tops.” Now, my seven-year cap hits thirty; my grace period could go as high as thirty-five.

My mother was thirty when she had me. So when I was younger, “thirty” meant old. It meant having babies, not going out and having fun. “Thirty” remained old until I was about fifteen. That’s when a friend of mine announced that she wanted to be a doctor and we did the math. For her, “thirty” wouldn’t even be “grown up.” But I still never thought I’d see the day when I’d consider dating “thirty.”

Here’s the thing, though. “Thirty” also means that they probably remember the first time they’d ever heard the name Kurt Cobain, they saw that amazing Unplugged concert on MTV, and they definitely remember, if they were fans at least, where they were when they heard he was dead. They remember the real Olympic “Dream Team,” and how shocking it was when Magic Johnson, at the top of his game, announced to the world that he was infected with HIV. They know about the first war we fought in Iraq. They’ve unironically watched hours of Alf.

I was blessed—cursed?—with a memory that goes back further than most people’s. I was two and a half when my other sister was born, and I remember my mother’s pregnancy. (Really, what I most remember is going to the kennel to get our new puppy.) I may still be seven years away from “thirty,” but I make up for it in memories that a lot of people my age aren’t lucky enough to have. I was born in 1983, but I honestly remember 1985. I’m old enough to tell my young cousins “when I was your age” stories.

So please, please—when I say that I feel old, just go with me, okay? I don’t feel ancient. I just don’t feel all that young.

Image found here.