We took the tallest child out for his fifth birthday on Wednesday. There’s this rodeo-esque place in town that he lovingly calls “The Cowboy Westawant.” You can eat peanuts and throw them on the floor and they serve everything in monster portions smothered in bacon and honey-laden calories. He also got to do the thing my husband and I have sworn we will never do to each other on our birthdays, but our son was over the moon for.
They tote this little equestrian lover’s dream of a furniture piece out onto the floor in the eyes of the viewing public. It is literally a standalone saddle on wheels. You are then expected to mount (giggle) the saddle and then the entire Midwestern customer base lets out this rowdy YEE-HAW.
In five-year-old world, that is, as he told us, “THE BEST BIRTHDAY EVER” material right there. Take note, ‘rents. (See what I did there? Although, we prefer the term “roommates…”)
My birthday also happens to be very close to our little jockey dude, and as the entire crowd erupted in cheers, I leaned into my husband and made a subtle death threat if he got any wise ideas about me getting on that ******* saddle. I will find something sharp and stab you. Is something along the lines of what I said. Or maybe it was, I’ll take that adorable little steak knife they bring with your prime rib and stuff it into your pretty little heart, as I was clapping and cheering through glittering smile.
Don’t worry, I’m not a psychopath. I’m just old, as I’m quickly realizing. And I have a complex about being stared at while doing stupid things. I feel like if I were pumped full of margaritas prior, then I’d have no problem, but sobriety is a funny thing.
I was reminded just how old I am when I realized that the reason our server looked SO. DAMN. FAMILIAR. was because he was, EXACTLY, Bill S. Preston, Esquire. I mean, I was looking all over the place for Keanu Reeves. And a phone booth. He had the hair. And the accent. And the HAND GESTURES. It was amazing! Until I realized that this guy was, like, seventeen and had no idea who Bill OR Ted were.
And then I sobbed quietly into my hankie that I’m going to start carrying because that’s what old people do.
I don’t even get carded anymore. I explained this to these guys the other day–as I was carding them–and then I quickly said “because, you know, I’m so well-known as a bartender so they all know I’m twenty-one.” They nodded and smiled, and I realized how much of an ass that made me look.
The feeling of old is real. It’s intense. People look to me for things now…like life advice and Tylenol. What do I look like? A freaking pharmacy? Oh, no, I just look old.
And then, today there was this magical girl at a kiosk who walked up to me. And right before I was about to become highly irritated and walk away, she said “Excuse me? Are you at least sixteen or older?”
And for a split second, I wanted to tell her that she could have all my babies.
Moments later, I realized that I still didn’t want to sign up for whatever drawing she was sponsoring no matter how young she thought I looked, and I still walked away. So, yes, I’m grouchy and old, but to that one person…to that one generationally challenged girl who is probably sadly diagnosed with macular degeneration or some other tragic ocular disease, I look sixteen. Heyyy.