Tag Archives: middle age

Of Fiefs and Serfs

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The Middle Ages.  There was a time when those words triggered thoughts of war, religion, filth, poor hygiene…special focus on the hygiene bit.  The Middle Ages now are all about timely dental cleanings, squinting at books and pretending not to, constantly resetting online passwords, and long grey hairs that cannot in any reasonable way be considered “that random blond strand.”

I came out of the womb with an eighty-year old personality, so I didn’t despair too often about changes that might come with time.  My kindergarten days were spent hoarding moist towelettes and agonizing about using restrooms outside my home.  I can’t think of better examples of geriatric behavior.

My twenties however were noticeably fraught with angst on birthdays, with the typical first-world young person crap.  Will I ever have a job beyond quality control of photocopies?  Why did my last date want to split the bill? Am I not worth the price of a Caliente Cab Company burrito?  And of course, should I stay home Friday night with the fine pimple on my chin?

And now this middle period of history has arrived, marked by a general attitude of not giving a rat’s ass.   No, I will not join the office March Madness pool anymore.  I don’t really mind which Carolina wins what.  People: will you just let me work?

I’ll say it out loud: I don’t like sloppy yoga pants at brunch – sue me.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.

And guess what?  It turns out I really like eating cake in bed, crumb cleanup be darned.  What about the brushing of teeth, you ask?  See above on rat’s behind – that’s what regular dental cleanings are for.  The Middle Ages are indeed marked by dubious hygiene.

All Ages Show

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Hypnotic trance beats, neon lights at the DJ booth, an unruly crowd at the bar, and me finally trying out some moves beyond child’s pose.  It’s 7am.  I may no longer be checking the “18-34” age box on the mail-in surveys, but who says the fun has to stop?

I hear the groans already.  A middle-aged person at a club sounds as pleasing as a tuna and chocolate sandwich.  Back when I could gleefully check the aforementioned age box, I swore I would know to stop clubbing well before my expiration date.  And what marks the expiration date?  Well, being concerned about the safety of your purse is probably a flag.  Are you standing around trying to guess people’s ages?  Hoping against the odds there is a nice white wine you can order, instead of a shot of Fireball?  And if you don’t know what Fireball is, then that is a very unhidden clue to stay home and keep enjoying “Modern Family.”

But before you get judgy on me, imagining Leona Helmsley squeezed into a bandage dress, trying to avoid getting elbowed in the left eye by a flailing whippersnapper, I give you two words: morning rave.  This is my new mantra.  Forget affirming every morning that I love myself, as well as that mean woman on the Metro who took two seats with her giant backpack.  That only worked when I followed it up with a cherry chocolate scone – then I loved everybody.

Admittedly, I was a little worried when I walked into the spartan club at 7:01 a.m. and couldn’t spot the bathrooms right away.  For a split second, I panicked that I had missed reading about the new trend on retro outhouses.  But once the DJ put his fingers to work, I settled into the beats, and let my anxiety trickle away little by little.  I spotted a group of moms in their yoga pants, dancing protectively in a circle, stopping for the occasional selfie, and then carefully tucking their phones into their bras.  And the slightly overweight youngster, wonderfully uninhibited in his rhythmic gymnastics, unaware he would eventually hurt somebody.  But it was all good.

Maybe it was because I watched the sun from the club’s rooftop, slowly strengthening its rays.  Perhaps the bartender roofied the outstanding iced coffees at the bar.  I don’t care.  Morning Rave.  Close your eyes, and say it with me.