(Previously published in The Blade)
"Excuse me, sir," the young man with the leather pants and pierced lower lip said as he brushed by me. Excuse me? I was sitting on a barstool facing into the pulsating crowd and, until that point, feeling very young and with it. Sir?
I'm 35. Where does he get off being polite to me?
I went to the club to hear a band after meeting one of the members at another club earlier that night. I went to the first club with a friend to watch his son perform.
That I feel compelled to explain what I was doing at either club is only slightly more pathetic than admitting I was there with the guitar player's dad.
To the "kid" who bumped into me, I was just a paunchy, bald old guy sitting at the bar. But inside, I was still the same paunchy, bald young guy I was in college, only I was drinking better beer.
So, nothing on my body is pierced and Docker's don't come in leather. But I was at the same club enjoying the same music as this polite but careless young man, who, by the way, needed a haircut. Why didn't he say "excuse me, man" or "dude" or "bud?"
Sir?
That three-letter word shattered the illusion (or was it a delusion) that I was having a good time. What I was really doing was watching younger people having a good time, vicariously gyrating, crowd-surfing and bumping into old guys at the bar.
Who was I kidding? I am no longer among the young. I am, at best, youngish.
Sitting there at the bar at 12:30, an hour past my bedtime, wondering if it would be prudent to finish a second beer, my mind wandered. I had thoughts that will not occur to the bouncing young people on the dance floor for at least another 15 years. Thoughts like:
"That looks like a fire code violation."
"I hope no one dings the doors on the mini-van. I just made the last payment."
"I think my daughter has this CD."
"Whoa! I'll bet her mom is HOT!"
"Did I turn off the iron?"
"They really should have more bathrooms."
"I wonder if they have a children's menu."
I should have seen this coming. A couple of summers earlier, a very sincere girl behind the information desk at an Ontario provincial park, who I guessed to be about two years older than my dog, became very concerned when I inquired about a campsite on the beach.
"That's usually where the younger people camp," she said as though she worried that my walker might get stuck in the sand.
Ouch.
Staring down the barrel of my 20-year high school class reunion, I was not quite sure what acting my age meant anymore. Thirty-five is one of those awkward ages, like 13 and 18 (and every teen in between). It is a bridge-crossing age -- the threshold between young adult and just plain adult. They used to call it middle age, until the Baby Boomer's got there and raised the bar to 55.
I am caught between two generations; too young to be a Boomer, too old for Generation X. I hate to think how many times I've come home from a typical night out and said to my wife, "We have got to get some (younger/older) friends." Actually, what I've got to do is jump to one side or the other - either pierce a fleshy body-part or join a ma and pa bowling league.
I am...conflicted.
I still roll my eyes when "older" people refer to the way things used to be, yet find myself using sentences that begin with "My first car..." and "Before we had computers..."
I can listen to Clapton and Korn and laugh hardily at both Chris Rock and George Carlin. I can use the word hardily. I can speak with authority about how "Saturday Night Live" used to be funny. I can read "Rolling Stone" and "Field and Stream" with equal interest. I can order a Chalupa or "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."
At 35, I was old enough to run for president and young enough to still elicit disapproving glares from my elders.
A few days after the night club incident, I opened the door to the mini-van in a parking lot, pausing to hear the end of a song on the radio. In the next car was an older man who clearly did not appreciate Bush played at notch nine.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, reaching for the volume knob while trying to stifle a smirk.
I've got news for that 16-year-old Canadian girl, too: I just might camp on that beach - if it's not too far from the bathrooms.
Addendum: At age 45, I like my music just as loud...and my bathrooms even closer.