Stranger than fiction

Friday, October 24, 2003

As I round the bend toward 34, I'm conscious that it will be my last year inside that desirable 18-to-34 demographic, a.k.a. The Holy Grail of Marketing. It seems I ought to be enjoying this time by dressing younger, acting younger, doing younger things. You know, enjoying the carefree impulsiveness of youth while it's still an option. Maybe I peaked early -- ran off to Chicago for a few wild months when I was 20, got a tattoo at 30. What rebellion is left at this point? Parking in someone else's assigned space? Taking two free samples from the "take one, please" baskets? Alas, none of that seems enough, so I'm stuck listening wistfully to the stories of my younger co-workers and their weekend escapades. One recently felt the onset of illness and did the perfectly logical thing for a 23-year-old to do: went to the doctor for some antibiotics, drank all weekend with some buddies and then took three days of unpaid leave to recover. Four local college students recently drove to New Orleans with the promise of getting backstage for a Radiohead concert ... a promise given by a roadie, a career commonly known for its courtesy and professionalism. Of course, when they arrived, no roadie. They didn't have any hotel money, and some in the group had to get back to work, so they stood outside the concert for awhile, grabbed some breakfast and then drove the 11 hours home. But those are the kinds of experiences they'll laugh about in 10 or 20 years. You've got to get them out of the way before you realize how dumb you are and stop having fun. For instance, in my early 20s, I was a dance club freak. (Or maybe just a freak.) If I went anywhere in the nation, I was going to spend at least part of the time paying a $10 cover, wearing shoes that hurt, drinking water because I couldn't really afford that cover and attempting to shout to a companion over the din of techno. Now I find myself drinking dirty martinis and asking the bartender to turn down the music so I can have a conversation. But a friend talked me into going to karaoke last week -- strictly as an observer. It was what you might expect: plenty of mediocre singing by partially intoxicated people and a few really good performances, but it was lots of fun. Suddenly, without warning, the night's theme switched from karaoke bar to dance club, and Mike and I hadn't even moved locations. The emcee flipped on a hip-hop CD with today's hottest hits. Like ants to a picnic, the bar patrons rushed the dance floor and started doing moves I'd never seen outside of MTV. Those folks had to be double-jointed. When "Get Low" by L'il Jon and the Eastside Boyz came on, they went nuts. It's No. 5 on the latest Billboard R&B chart, and one of the cleaner parts contains these dance instructions: "Let me see you get low you scared you, scared you "Drop dat a** to the floor you scared you, scared you "Drop dat a** ya shake it fast ya "Pop dat a** to the left and the right ya ... "Now back, back, back it up" In short, this dance meant getting close to the floor, performing various movements and then returning to a standing position. The last time I did a dance like that, it was the California Slide and I was in high school. I turned to Mike sadly. "I can't 'get low' anymore," I said. Mike shook his head. "I could get low, but someone would have to help me get back up." It's probably time to start focusing on the positive parts of aging. Like a steady job that allows me to eat something other than Ramen noodles and generic mac and cheese. A car that starts in the mornings. An apartment not located over a friendly neighborhood drug dealer. And all the knowledge I need to make sure my antibiotics work.

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