In which I realize that, yes, I AM in my late twenties

I used to always be the youngest one. The Canadian education system sends children off on their pursuit of knowledge at the age of 4. I was also an October baby, putting me at the younger end of my kindergarten class. Then, I was a nerd and skipped a grade. When I finally started high school, I was eleven.  I’m not sure that I was ever aware how young I was, unencumbered in my early years by any self-consciousness in appearance or personality, but now that I think back on it, the difference must have been glaring: I was round and apple-cheeked, snub-nosed, four-eyed, bright-eyed, naïve - and as a pre-teen, considerably dwarfed in height as a freshman amongst my senior classmates. 

[It might also explain the relative lack of any romantic interest or attachment thrown my way during those formative years - well, that, and:
  • - my parents’ unyielding rules on dating
  • - my relative cluelessness and distractedness
  • - and my utter disregard for any fashion
  • might have played a major part in that as well. 

(I may have spent senior year living in loose black drawstring pants and a white tee affixed with an anime-style karate girl in pink on it, often bizarrely and hilariously accompanied by a fitted navy-and-black track jacket gilded across the front with the name of a university to which I wouldn’t be going.)

My high school unofficial uniform: a shirt like this, without words, and somehow worse source 
I'm not proud, okay?

It continued on into college, med school, residency. It was a little inconvenient to experience that delayed discomfiting teenage insecurity catching up with me at a stage of life when the reckless egoism and beauty of youth should be at its fullest bloom. But though age difference lessened in importance with each step in life - and though I never brought up my age unless directly asked - secretly, innately, I nevertheless took a very palpable delight in my relative youth. 

That's no longer true.

There are plenty of articles and online quizzes that can assess if you’re no longer of the culture-making, culture-breaking category know as 'the youth' (hint: you’ve probably operated a cassette, VCR, and slap bracelet once or twice in your lifetime).  
But truthfully, it’s real life, not looking at the numbers on a page or a driver’s license, that has forced me to reckon with on the truth: I am solidly in my late twenties. 

For instance:
  • - I am now one of the oldest persons amongst my group of friends (and when I found out three weeks ago, it was a bit of a shock).
  • - Incoming residents are now younger than me.
  • - It takes much longer to recover from early days at work, or late nights out.
  • - Occasionally, I don't get carded at alcohol stores and restaurants (and yes, I’m moderately offended every single time).
  • - Music from the early 2000s are not only considered pure vintage now by the young’uns, but now remembered not with eye rolls and snark, but with fondness and even enthusiasm (they are the foundation of my repertoire of most well-received karaoke songs). 
Oh, you KNOW you love when Nick Carter makes that epic key change. Speaking of which, wherefore art Nick Carter?
  • - I had no idea what ‘ratchet’ or ‘basic’ meant until it was uncool to use them, and I use ‘awesome’ and ‘props’ far too often to be cool.
  • - And, yes, I’ll even admit to three instances where I shaved a year, or two (and once, even three) off of my age simply because it didn’t seem right in the circumstance. 
  • (e.g., he’s tall, he’s English, and it’s not obvious that he’s twenty-one until he tells you mid-flirting; or, say, when you’re staying at a youth hostel because, even at 27, you’re still not being paid well enough to consider staying at an AirBNB, much less a hotel). 

Let me further offer up this theory (in the manner of the record of our time, Buzzfeed).

You know if you're in your late twenties if your behavior now consists of:

1) Being on time. At the James Vincent Mcmorrow concert that I teasingly referred to earlier this year, and promptly never discussed again, I was punctual for once - early even. It is most certainly a sign that you don’t have cool, fun young-people-things to distract you from getting to places on time. 





In fact, I was amongst the first 30 people to enter Union Transfer, and believe me, walking into a mostly empty hall for what is supposed to be an exciting concert is both daunting and anti-climactic. So, I resorted to the trick used by every early attendant at the awkward start of every party ever: I made a beeline for the bar. 

THAT, I think, is the true advantage of no longer being in the teens, my friend. 

(What is the saying? One gin and tonic in hand is worth being 2 [or 8] years over the age of 20? Yeah.)

2) Prioritizing comfort over being in the middle of the action. 

No mosh pit for me, no siree.  What they don’t tell you when you’re young is that yes, you could potentially push your way through 

to the front of the stage, in order see the sweat dripping off and spit spraying from the face of your favorite musician, and sway intimately in time to the rhythm of your favorite song deafeningly amplified through the speakers (by which I mean, being pushed around to the beat by the neighbors pressed up around you like a straitjacket).

Well, that would work. source
OR (and guys, this is such a beautiful ‘or’)

There are these sections, unbeknownst to me until earlier this year at the JVM concert, where only people over 21 can reside. (Did you know this before?!) 

Goodbye, smelly, tall, loud, selfie-taking youths. 
Hello, platform on the side of the room, extending right to the stage, raised and railed for protection from the unseemly hordes. 

I was basically effin’ Marie-Antoinette there, with unimpeded access to the stage of my kingdom, and a glass of champagne in one hand to prove it. (Just don’t let me lose my head) 

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These exclusive places are everywhere. EVERYWHERE. At the Kills concert a week ago, at the fabulous Trocadero, it was instead a gorgeous balcony for the over twenty-ones only. 

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Man, it was comfortable, all leather-cushioned, terraced platforms. There was a bathroom around the corner. There were no tall people constantly blocking my short self’s line of sight - a perfect view at every seat, because we old ones were all sitting down. It was wondrous, particularly for my feet.

And yes, there was a bar - but not simply a bar: a bar with a sign that proclaimed that - along with beers, liquors, and the usual poisons - White Castle was sold here.

It was like
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Full M-A, Sofia Coppola style.  Oh sole mio, I will live on that balcony and eat White Castle and perfect my royal wave, and never go back to my peasant life again.

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Full disclosure: I did go down to the mosh pit of a floor when the Kills performed, and it did really stink in comparison, in both the olfactory and visual sense.

BUT THIS:


And really, if you’re not dancing while listening to Jamie Hince cooly whaling on an electric guitar (and showing the world just how he snagged Kate Moss) and watching Alison Mosshart (my role model!) twirl on stage, alternately croon and snarl in the mic, and altogether magnetize the audience, all while rocking heels, you don’t have two ears and a heart, and you are probably dead.




3) Complaining about the youths. 

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Have you ever talked with a parent or a grandparent that didn’t at some point in time start their sentence with, “When we were young, we would never have…” or “When I was your age”? No. It’s expected and automatically excused. Age basically gives you carte blanche to grumble at the world around you. If you’re young, and you complain, you’re treated as though you are simply ignorant, you know nothing of the world, you haven’t experienced enough of life to earn the right to complain. You will not be let off the hook. But when you’re old, the world is your oyster for the nagging: the weather, the temperature of the soup, the height of shoes and the length of skirts these days, the ungratefulness of children. Anything goes.

So it’s really not unexpected that while crowded all together on that wonderful side-platform at the JVM concert, a bunch of folks in their late twenties and early thirties would start to practice the art of lamenting the degeneration of ‘the youths these days’. 
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I was particularly tickled pink (I’m really getting into this old-timey thing) to hear a girl behind me say to her boyfriend, “I can’t believe they are wearing shorts and crop tops in this weather. And that girl’s skirt is so short.  Aren’t they cold? They should at least be wearing tights.” This was upon seeing an impromptu fashion shoot consisting of a bunch of high school girls in rather weather-incongruent clothing, attempting to take non-blurry selfies and blinding the room with their constantly strobing flash. 

This is absolutely something my mother would say. And my grandmother. 

And you know what? They're all correct. 

(Also, there’s something to be said about everyone turning into their mothers…yeesh.)

In conclusion: your concert-going behavior reflects your age-related behavior in life. 

But really, becoming older isn't as bad as I thought. If the worse thing that happens is that your feet won’t hurt because you didn’t spend the entire concert on your feet, but instead, responsibly sat on your rear and had a great view from in the old-people section, then so be it.

 If you start thinking about your future, and dutifully exercising and watching what you spend instead of thoughtlessly eating whatever you want and throwing around money on a good time, then good on ya. 

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If you’re out dancing at Silk City, but you go home at midnight like your transportation will turn back into squash and mice, in order to be well-rested the next day, well, power to you (even if the DJ was great and even if I did want to dance a little more - well, you know who you are. But thanks for being responsible anyway, and dragging me with you.) 

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Better yet, as someone who has always considered herself an old soul, I now have an excuse to act like a old soul - curl up with a knitted afghan on my couch, complain that Philadelphia is too cold/too warm depending on the season, watch Downton Abbey instead of going out, listen to Nina wailing the blues on my record player, eat pudding, drink hot cocoa - because now I AM an old soul. BUAHAH.

Liz Lemon, my soul animal via
So props to that. Here’s to the late twenties, and God willing, a great year ahead.



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