One of the things I love about living in this city is going out to hear live music. I hadn’t done it in awhile so the past few weeks I’ve been making up for it. Last week a friend and I went to hear a few bands in a Lower East Side bar I hadn’t been to. I was wearing jeans, my too long hair in a pony, little makeup. When we got to the door, the bouncer asks for my ID. Now, it could be one of those places where they ask everyone. But no, they don’t ask my friend, who for sure doesn’t look even remotely close to 21, but then, neither do I.
Cut to tonight. We (the same friend and I) go see Nada Surf in a crowded downtown venue. My back ain’t what it used to be, so I take the opportunity to be right up against the stage so I can lean on it, and not have to deal with 6′4″ guys in front of me. Maybe some little hipsters got annoyed they weren’t up front. I don’t know. But I hear behind me, “Must be senior citizens night out”.
Now, presumably they are talking about my going-gray friend, who is several years older than me. But I am 40, after all, so I take umbrage. It took all my willpower not to turn around and hiss at the little twerp, “Excuse me, how old do you think the BAND MEMBERS are?” I’ve known one of the guys in the band, and one of their guest musicians, for 12 years. They are, give and take a few years, my contemporaries. Not that this even matters, even if the band members were 22, am I not allowed to go out and hear good music?
Quite a juxtaposition of events here. But it really is a strange feeling, to not quite belong in either demographic. I’m too old to be young, too young to be old.
Oh yeah, knitting. Still haven’t started that last square.