On Aging Gracefully
My greatest attribute has always been that I am young. Except that now I am getting old. I know that I am getting old because a few weeks ago I went out in Pacific Beach, San Diego’s young party neighborhood, with a younger Gen Z friend of mine, and I was cut in line by two girls in their early twenties wearing mom jeans and Birkenstocks, their hair up in high ponytails. The general principle of these girls jumping the line of course did not insult me in the least. There was a time not so long ago when I skipped the line at bars all the time. And boy, those were the days. My girlfriends and I would spend hours in the bathroom and in our closets picking out our cutest slut outfits, curling our hair, curling our lashes, singing along to the speakers playing the 2000s Hottest Hits. We’d Uber into the city at ten, four shots deep, and show up at the crowded bars in our short, tight dresses and stiletto heels. We’d wait in the freezing cold for the prime opportunity to approach the bouncer and schmooze our way in without waiting in the 45 minute line or paying the $10 cover. And we wouldn’t pay for a drink all night.
Those days are over now. And it is not like I showed up to Pacific Beach expecting a night of grandeur like I used to have in my early 20s. I’d worn white capris, a slinky open back blouse with a flared peacoat for warmth, and a pair of black pumps I’d just gotten on sale from Macy’s. I had curled my hair and touched up my lipstick in the car. Objectively, I looked good. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the outfit I would have chosen four years ago. Primarily because I am just no longer up for facing the elements. By the elements I mean any temperature below 70 degrees. While the world continues to get hotter, my body temperature seems to be dropping with every year that I get older, and I am never not cold. So long ago I traded in those tight mini skirts that barely covered my cheeks, and when I do wear dresses now, I’ve discovered the miracle of sheer nylons. The point is that I was wearing more clothes than the girls who cut the line.
Then there were the glasses. They aren’t strictly necessary, but two years of grad school did a number on my aging eyes and my sight simply isn’t what it once was. I can function fine until about 6 pm, but at twilight anything outside of a ten foot radius turns into a blur of color. 5–6 feet after wine is thrown into the mix. When I’m not driving or trying to watch Law and Order SVU with the closed captioning I can function without the glasses and can deal with the blobs, but when given the option, I do prefer clarity.
I digress. So, at 29, with the addition of the jacket and the pants and the glasses, I perhaps did not look as strikingly hot as I may have five years prior. And in the natural order of things it was these young 20 year old girls’ turn to jump the line and get into the bar for free. But something must be said for effort and sacrifice. In my day we put hours into the process of getting ready. We stood out in the San Francisco winter evenings risking frostbite in our next-to-nothing outfits, feet killing us in five foot pumps, for the opportunity to cut the lines at bars. It took devotion. Mom jeans, sandals and ponytails don’t involve the same effort or sacrifice. Clearly it is not the Millennials who have lost sight of the value of hard-work.
But again, I have strayed. On top of the being cut in line, the always beings cold, and the loss of sight, there is a multitude of reasons not to get old. One example is the increased life-expectancy of any given hangover. While the morning after drinking has always been something of a pain, one would think that by TWO mornings after drinking the body would be back to normal. One would be wrong. It’s taken me a while, but finally at 29 I have realized that if I want to live a happy and fulfilled life I simply cannot continue to rage as I did at 24.
But perhaps the worst part of getting old is realizing and acknowledging that you are getting old. Next year I will be in my thirties. A person in their thirties should likely have decided what they want to be when they grow up. They should no longer be driving their first car and should be saving up for a mortgage on a house. They should be trading stocks. They should not be on their parents’ phone plans or car insurance. They should be all of these things.
But alas, here we are. Getting older, getting colder, but not getting any richer.
