I attended a party this weekend, and damned if it didn’t make me feel old. My friends and I showed up, expecting to see your normal (or what has become normal for us, at this advanced stage in life) group of mid-twenties folks, reliving their high school glory days by making it damn clear to everyone that they still know all the lyrics to Baby Got Back.
Instead we were greeted by a massive group of NINETEEN YEAR OLDS. Seriously. I carded one of them. He was born in 1987. How is that I am attending social functions with people born in 1987? When did that happen?
So there we all were, getting down with our bad selves. I’m pretty sure my friends and I probably looked something like this to the youngsters:
Meanwhile, we felt like we were attending a party with these people:
Throughout the evening I had to keep stopping myself from asking if anyone needed to use the potty.
In addition to the youngness (Youth? That should probably be youth. But I like ‘youngness’ and I’m going to go with it.) of the guests, I should probably add that they were all dressed like Break Dancers. Or at least tiny, slutty versions of break dancers. I was wearing a Western shirt and a pink cowboy hat, and was planning on telling people that I had thought we were invited to a line dancing party. Which I thought was hilarious. But people, NO ONE ASKED. Which caused me to wonder, do they think this is the way I always dress? I mean, clearly I have been branded completely un-hip just by being (gasp!) over 25, but have I somehow managed to make myself appear EVEN MORE UNCOOL? I had a brief moment of doubt and for a second I was reliving high school, and all the associated insecurities all over again. And then I remembered. These people are 19. Who the hell cares what they think! They have never even seen Tron! (Actually, I have never actually seen Tron. Which is a travesty of justice that must be rectified. But you get my point. These people know nothing!)
I shouldn’t have worried though. Because clearly my western theme had enchanted at least one young gentleman. Early on in the evening I struck up a conversation with him because he just seemed like SUCH A DORK. You know? The kind of guy who might really do well at about 25, but who probably didn’t enjoy high school all that much? He was wearing this really awful, sort of Kente cloth looking shirt, and he had this silly, crazy curly hair. Everyone at the party was making name tags, and we started talking about what his name should be. (I was Moon Rider for the evening, only some guy thought it said Moped Rider and then all night I wished it really WAS Moped Rider because THAT is an awesome name.) So I asked the guy about his crazy shirt, and he said he had just bought it that day at this store called African Momma. Like, on purpose. You can’t make this shit up. Obviously that had to be his name. Ta da! And then, you know, the conversation sort of ended—I wandered off to gum some applesauce, and he, apparently, wandered off to suck beer straight from the keg.
Because the next time I saw African Momma? He was applying his chap-stick in what I can only describe as an aggressive manner and discussing with me the advantages of asexual reproduction. I think he was smitten. I think he pictured riding off into the sunset with his very own Moon Rider, perhaps on a moped. And suddenly he was a close talker. The Lovely Miss Q had to introduce herself as a ‘Moon Rider’s Protector’ and repeatedly step in between us. African Momma and I re-enacted the ‘this is my dance space, this is your dance space’ scene from Dirty Dancing several times. All to no avail. It was time to get the heck out of Dodge.
It was, to say the least, an interesting night. I think the highlight though, was standing in the kitchen amidst scantily clad children and discussing with T-Bone how even though it’s hard getting around with fake hips and dealing with the complications of medicare, at least when we throw parties there are cheese plates and an open bar.
These kids today, I tell you what…