Lost Youth

I had to go get my driver’s license renewed yesterday. I remember the last time I went, when the boys were tiny and screaming and unmanageable. Other people may have hated the idea of wasting so many hours, but I thought there was nothing more appealing than sitting alone for an afternoon (even if I had to be surrounded by anxiety-provoking signs that said things like “Intimidating a State Employee is a Felony”).

Anyway, this time I was nervous. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit this, but I was worried about getting my picture taken. There’s something about having two identically staged photos side-by-side to make you aware of how much time has passed, how much wrinkle-causing water is under the bridge.

I’ve been noticing my age lately. It’s not that the number itself is an issue, but I’ve just been feeling slower. In years past, if you had given me the choice between a) going out and doing something exciting or b) sitting on the couch and watching Grey’s Anatomy, I would have chosen going out without even thinking. These days, I often find myself in my pajamas at 8 pm. And I wonder, have I become the stodgy adult I swore to myself I’d never be?

The truth is that there are consequences to staying up late. First off, there’s Blue and Green’s marching band, which starts its rehearsals at 6 am. And let me tell you, the sound of a toy guitar with weak batteries before dawn is enough to break a person’s spirit until lunchtime.



Second, for every hour I spend with a margarita in my hand in a dark bar, I pay for it with an entire day of feeling crappy. Why is that? Going out on Saturday night should not render me useless until Thursday.

There was a time in my life when I could stay up late and return to form the next morning. In college, it seems like I would routinely stay up all night to write some dumb paper and then go out the next night to celebrate getting it done. And then, when I finally did get to sleep, some kid down the hall in the dorm would set the fire alarm off because he wanted to test whether or not the fireproof doors were really fireproof. Out we would all go in our pajamas into the blustery Chicago night air. But it was alright – the next day I could drown my drowsiness in one of those large plates of “breakfast potatoes” that they always served in the cafeteria. I learned then that french fries in the morning are a miracle cure for whatever’s ailing me.

But here I am facing another birthday, and I’ve been feeling like I need to rekindle some of that lost youth. So last weekend I decided to throw caution to the wind. I gathered some friends and had them take me to a fun place that served big, fruity drinks. I actually put on lipstick and dug out my good jeans, not the usual ones that are covered with macaroni and cheese stains.

When we got there, I noticed right away that my good jeans didn’t really cut it. There were girls in tube tops and stilettos, and lots of people were wearing my favorite outfit from 1984: the Flashdance ripped sweater over leggings. If only I had made more headway cleaning the garage! I’m pretty sure I have that outfit tucked safely away in a box labeled “bad memories.”

To offset my discomfort about my attire, I ordered a margarita right away. One of my friends began the evening by making a rule: no talking about kids. This left us with discussions about politics (depressing), work (stressful), and movies (never get out to see any). But it only took a few minutes for me to generate a great topic. MEN! Isn’t that what youthful women talk about when they go out on the town?

I wish I could share the scandalous details of that conversation with you, but I can’t remember it. It was so funny and fabulous that I accidentally drank two of those margaritas. And if you know me well, you are aware that two margaritas are 1 ½ too many for me. I leaned over to my friend somewhere along the line and said, “I hate to ask you this, but can you carry me to the bathroom?”

As I was being escorted across the bar, I watched the room spin around me. And I had a strange sensation, a psychic vibe of some sort. Though I couldn’t see anyone, I knew that one of my students was there. Oh yes, THIS is why I don’t go to bars very often. People don't want to see their drunken, middle-aged professor stumbling and sloshing past their dinner table.

Not much longer after that, my friends wrapped me up and returned me to my quiet, family-friendly neighborhood. I came through the front door with a huge smile on my face. Michael was watching me from the couch. “Baby,” I said, “Look at me. I ‘m getting older, but I’ve still got it going on.” He rolled his eyes, unimpressed. I poured a glass of water, got some aspirin from the medicine cabinet, and joined him on the couch. “Let’s watch Grey’s Anatomy,” I slurred.

A few hours later, the marching band began to play “Jingle Bells” at top volume. I woke up and put on those cheese-stained jeans. “Mama,” Green said to me as I poured a strong cup of coffee, “your butt looks like a cauliflower.” “Thanks so much, honey,” I said, and I gave him a kiss. Growing older is OK. It really is.