Sunday, January 09, 2005

I'm too old for this shiznit

Did I even spell "shiznit" right? If not, I'm even too old to use hip terms in the place of the standardized curses.

When did I turn old? Seriously! I'm not talking about the gray hairs that settle into my mane while I sleep. I'm used to grooming before the mirror at 6am with a tweezer and a mission. I'm not talking about my left knee which creaks and strains when asked to do too much. I'm definitely not referring to my lack of verve or desire for excitement. All those things I accept (well, maybe not the permanance of the gray yet) and do not consider to be signs of aging. What I want to know is, at what point did I become "old" to the rest of the world?

So three blondes and a brunette walk into a bar (guess which one I am) for a girls night out. As I belly up to order my elixir, it occurs to me how very young and very tight are all these other ladies in the club this evening. Then it occurs to me that they aren't giving me the standardized "eye of competition" we women have come to know so well. They are in fact smiling at me. HUH? Women don't smile at other women in a club... they look them over, once up, once down, then check to see if said women as B.Y.O.B (bring your own boyfriend.) That's what I remember, back in my younger days. But tonight, I am not sized up... instead, I am given a free pass, and it's BECAUSE I'M AN OLD FARKER!!!!! Do you KNOW how condescending that feels? These tight bodied, naturally mane-d females could have just as well approached me with a pat on the head for all the difference it would have made.

So, you'd think I had a bad time, right? Absolutely NOT! I had a great time. My manta is always, "I don't get out much" and I know that sounds untrue, given that my husband and I travel extensively, but it IS true in the sense that I (me, Robin) don't get out (of my shell) much anymore (as opposed to the days of yore.) So given that dynamic, it was a fabulous time. I made some new friends, got to see PC again, and danced danced danced. Then, as in the days of old, I finished my evening with a drive through Krystal and munched on slippery sliders as I drove home. Burrowing under the covers at 3am is something I've not done in years, and this morning I am paying the piper - exhausted, smelling like smoke, and talking with a rasp due to excessive laughing. I will admit the nightlife made me miss my Stephen immensely. Some of the best times I had were the "breaks from writing" we used to take. Can't come up with an original thought? Head to the mexican restaurant for chips and margaritas. Can't get the tune right? Head to the piano bar for martinis and sing-a-longs. Can't find inspiration for a new work? Head to Atlanta for Gospel night. Oh those were fabulous times. It's good to be back in the saddle again. I forgot how lovely those breaks from routine are. So I thank you, Stephen, for the life lessons, and I thank you PC for bringing the lessons back to life.