Just after the new year, I had an early warning sign. I saw Neko Case at the Vogue. She performed an a cappella song I hadn’t heard yet. Go ahead and press play (this will all make more sense if you experience this):
Her words weighted me down, my eyes closed, in hope that by not seeing I might hear more. It seemed brave of her, serenading us with this haunting pill to swallow. I was almost completely transported, except for the occasional shout or guffaw pulling me back to the beer-drenched Vogue. So many inebriated and/or self-absorbed people were loud-talking, oblivious to what was happening on stage. And there you have it: the first time I wanted to shush people at a concert.
This was something strange and foreign for me. The beginning of becoming the curmudgeonly one. That was in January, and it was just the beginning.
Of course this is the inevitable change, the aging. It comes faster now that the door is open. Over Thanksgiving break, in her kitchen, my mom told me it accelerates year after year. I get whiplash just thinking about it.
The evidence mounted. I bought decaf coffee for the house for the first time. Louie and I brought the average age down a solid 10-15 years at the Eagle Creek bird walk. My co-workers’ eyes glazed over when I mentioned Buffalo Stance, subjected them to bad eighties videos of L’Trimm and Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Buttermilk Biscuits.
And the real kicker. I caught myself saying, “In my day…” And not in jest.
But no, really! In my day…
This post is part of Think Kit by SmallBox
Prompt: “Weird. Wild. Wacky. Time to get weird. We want to hear your strangest story from the last year (or more). Will it make us raise an eyebrow or three? That’s what we want. Whether it’s a tale of colliding coincidences, a strange Saturday you just can’t shake, or if it makes you squirm just to remember: get weird.”