Sunday, November 11, 2007

The Final Countdown

The countdown is on: only one more week of life in my twenties. I have to say, the general public is doing a fantastic job of helping me through the transition. Just the other day, I was walking through Boston Common and got called “ma’am” not once, but twice. I actually looked around both times, as if surely they must have been addressing some old grandma behind me on a walker, but no, they were staring straight at me, smiling and holding out some petition they wanted me to sign. I told them that sadly my old arthritic hands could no longer hold a pen, otherwise I would be glad to help out the young whipper snappers.

The week before, I had stopped into my former office to meet up with a friend, and introduced myself to the young woman who had replaced me. She looked at me and said, “Wow, I thought the person before me was young like me.” I was shocked. Just how old did this bitch think I was? Maybe I need to stop sunning on my deck all summer. But damn it, how else am I going to enjoy my pina coladas? Pina coladas are meant to be enjoyed lying half-naked in the hot sun. That’s just the way it is, and if that’s so wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

In a city where the average age is twenty-six, I’ve had some time to get used to the idea that I’m ancient. The funny thing is though, I don’t feel like I’m about to turn thirty. Twenty-nine, maybe, but not thirty.

When I turned the ripe-old age of twenty-one, my best friend gave me a birthday card that read, “Old friends are the best friends.” Having had twenty-one drinks to go along with my twenty-one years that night (Just kidding! It was only twenty), I completely misinterpreted the card and thought that my bitch of a best friend was telling me I was old. I started crying and wailing, “I am old!” at which point, my friends threw me in a cold shower and I promptly passed out. The one good thing about passing out in the bath tub is that you're one step ahead of the game the next morning.

I guess the point is that age is subjective. It’s true that you’re only as old as you feel. I mean, look at Hugh Hefner. The man is like 100 and he’s surrounded by beautiful blondes, partying it up every other day of the week. I only hope that I can make it that long and that I will look and feel as good when I’m that age. If not, I always have my pina coladas. Funny how a little coconut, pineapple, and rum can delude you into thinking life is good like that.