Am I Too Old To Rock And Roll?

Something strange happens to you as you age. It’s like this weird phenomenon, your age goes up, but in your mind you stay the same. I am stuck somewhere between ages 23 and 26. Old enough to know better, but too young to really care.

Yesterday, I became keenly aware that I may feel 24 1/2, but to the outside world, I am a mini-van driving soccer mom. Is this a crisis of some sort?

While driving to pick up my son from pre-school I was enjoying a little Nine Inch Nails, my windows rolled down, flush from my workout and feeling feisty. As I was rocking out, I had this weird feeling like I was being watched. I turn my head, and next to me is a group of teenagers looking aghast at my pathetic display of complete uncoolness.

Their faces were twisted and distorted in a way that betrayed their utter contempt for me. How dare I imitate their youth, their hipness, and their culture? These kids were fundamentally offended by me and I am pretty sure I forced them to confront their future mortality and their own inevitable drift into uncoolness.

I felt bad for them, so I smiled and flashed them the universal sign of rebellion by sticking my tongue out, giving them the devil sign and screamed “rock n’ roll forever” out the window.

‘Cuz ya know, f’ them.

I have earned the right to be a dork. I successfully escaped my youth mostly unscathed. I partied hard and spent many a night with my head in a toilet. I slam danced my heart out and pulled a few muscles doing so. I have squeezed out two kids, worked hard, paid my dues, blah, blah, blah.

If I want to sit in my car, retreat to a time when my life was less complicated and I was more irresponsible, that’s my business you like punk ass bitches. Just because you don’t have to worry about mortgages, inflation, college tuition, middle-age spread, arthritis and retirement, doesn’t mean you’re better than I am.

I don’t have a curfew, I can buy my own beer, I can go to bars, see live nudes, buy porn, rent a car, see unrated movies. I can call your mom and tell her you were smoking in her car. And don’t think I won’t you little brats, sure drive off, laughing at me, but I know where you live.

Youth is so wasted on the young.

Okay, so maybe I am a little resentful and I won’t deny it, I hate teenagers. They think they’re the only ones who can be cool, listen to rock music, wear belly shirts and lo-rise jeans, paw at each other in public and hang with their crew at the roller rink.

I don’t have ACNE! Take that you little bastards!

I am still cool. I know what’s hip. I liked U2 and the Beastie Boys back when I ruled the back of the bus. You little jerks got nothing on me.

Getting older just means getting better; you can still have fun, listen to rock ‘n roll (perhaps at a lower volume) and be hip.

I just wish I could get my mom to stop hugging and kissing me in public; it’s so totally embarrassing.