A friend and I went to a concert last night night (on a weekday night… wild!). The band was fantastic, the audience was happy and fun, and the bartender was equal parts grouchy and endearing.
Blog-as-diary in three… two…
We were the oldest people there.
But we blended in well. Skinny jeans, messy buns, strategically placed “Oh, this old thing?” scarves. And it didn’t bother me that we were respectively old; it just occurred to me.
I don’t actually feel any different than I did ten years ago. Sure, a few things have changed. Now, I spend an extra minute poking and prodding at my messy bun until most of my grey hair is covered. And if I felt stressed out in 2002, I’d snowball myself into tears. In 2012, I just get sort of crabby and the left side of my face goes numb. A sign of maturity, I believe.
If I were my mother, I would currently be the proud parent of a four-year-old and a two-year old, and have another bundle of joy on the way. I’d live in a house with a yard and would carpool to preschool with my favorite next-door neighbor.
As not-my-mother, I have a fish and three complicated plants that miraculously come back to life every few weeks. I live in an apartment, grow herbs in the parking lot (also miraculous) and really only talk to my neighbors when my underwear escapes from my laundry pile and sits in the hallway for a couple of days (“Whose is that?! So weird.).
The not-doing-what-your-parents-did mentality is not new. I’m just surprised at how quickly and accidentally it manifested itself.