I’m not quite 30 yet.
I know that’s not old; however, it’s older than the 20-year-old that I sometimes think I am. And don’t forget: I’m marmish.
Lately I’ve been getting a glimpse at how it’s a slow slope to becoming the mom-jeans wearing groupie who says, “What’s up, homies?” to the kids and turns up the radio to sing to the “cool jam” from her generation.
Because it’s already happening.
It started yesterday when I heard the late-90’s LFO groove, [see: I’m already saying things like groove] “Summer Girls” on the radio. You know the one: “I like girls that wear Abercrombie &Fitch…”
It took me back to my suntanned days of watermelon Bubblicious bubblegum and spending weekends at the shopping mall and riding with the windows down. And suddenly: I was there.
I sang out loud, craved a Diet Cherry Coke and wanted to go home and “lay out.”
This moment of age-forgetfulness will no doubt come over me days, weeks, and years down the road until one day, when I’m far over the hill, I’ll be standing in my teenage son’s bedroom and I’ll hear a familiar song.
I’ll sing the words. I’ll dance a little jig. I’ll feel cool and hip and free.
And he’ll look at me with that Oh, Mommmmm look.
And then I’ll realize that it embarrasses him and I’ll dance my jig anyway, because hey, if we have to grow old, we may as well enjoy it.
“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” – Satchel Paige