I am officially old. I know this because when I got home from work on Friday afternoon, my first thought was “I’d really like to take before The Wedding Date gets here.”
As we sat down on the steps of the art museum to listen to the “music” (which featured a “world-renown” percussionist from Brazil) I found myself wondering, “Why is that drummer crawling out from underneath a blanket? And what is that other guy even playing? This isn’t music.”
Eventually The Wedding Date informed me that the “other guy” was playing a berimbou (“It’s used in capoeira”) and pulled out his iPhone to prove it to me.
At this point, I realized that I’m not only old but also ignorant. And I have a freakin’ MASTERS DEGREE in Dance Anthropology. How did I not know that?
By the time 8pm rolled around, I was starving; like most senior citizens, I like to eat dinner by 6pm.
When we headed up to North Philly to meet two of The Wedding Date’s friends for dinner, I took one look at the bars on all of the windows and exclaimed, “Oh My God! We’re going to get shot!” Then I realized that we’re only a few blocks from where I work and I’ve been working (and taking mass transit) there for almost two years now. Perhaps we wouldn’t get shot after all.
I ordered ceviche and stared in bewilderment as it arrived in an over sized martini glass complete with banana chips. “What will they think of next?” I marveled, only narrowly stopping myself from uttering my grandmother’s usual “Wowee!”
After two glasses of sangria, I was tired. Following a full frisking, we headed upstairs to the nightclub where my suspicions were confirmed:
The music was too loud
The girls’ dresses were too short.
And I’m turning into my grandmother.
“OMG!” I hissed into The Wedding Date’s ear. “Look at that girl over there!”
She was bent over in a pose which can only be described as downward-facing-dog meets… actually, I don’t even know. Porn. Really, really bad hardcore porn.
I was horrified.
Eventually, the DJ played a merengue so The Wedding Date took me for a spin. But by the time midnight rolled around, I was ready to go to bed.
(Proof, once again, that I am officially old.)
On our way back to the parking lot, however, The Wedding Date and his friend began singing a Paula Abdul song.
A song I didn’t know.
“Don’t you know this song?” his friend asked.
“Nope,” I replied.
“She’s too young,” The Wedding Date explained, “It was before her time.”
Maybe I’m not so old after all.