I was at a party over the weekend, an actual, honest to god, here’s a loud band and some food and some drink party (dancing to 60’s and 70’s standards under the stuffed heads of decapitated animals, an unexpected party from the pov of me in my twenties but a fun one just the same).
The band took a break, and my friend L sidled up to me and hissed “hey, let’s slip outside for a cigarette.”
For jsut a minute, just a second, probably, the past five or six years were gone and she was offering a real possiblility. Then we cracked up.
One of the most amusing things at the party was watching the pained expressions on the college student bartenders as 60 or so 30-40 year olds danced, almost without exception with spouses, to the above described oldies. Of course, they’re oldies to us, too, but these kids don’t know that. To them, an oldie is an oldie–and we, too. are oldies.
But of course, we’re not. Most of are about ten years or so out of grad school, caught in the throws of like with young kids and high career goals, still moving inexorably forward, and the thing is, this is where those kids are going. This is, in fact, where they want to be, when they cuddle up in their single beds with their boyfriends and dream of the future. Odds are, if they’re really lucky, it looks like this.
So I think it’s pretty funny to watch them curl their cute little lips at the whole thing.
And by the way, once I’ve spawned and nursed and gone through this particular ringer one more time–hell, yes, I’ll slip out for a cigarette. But not in January. And don’t tell my dad.