I recently had a birthday, my 26th if you must know, which I often try to ignore. Not in a depressed-contemplating-the-futility-of-my-life-and-the-finality-of-my-mortality way (damn, I could be a rapper), I just don’t like it. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the excuse to drag my friends to my favorite restaurant that they for some reason always veto when we’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner. But this year, I moved away from the early-mid twenties bracket to the dreaded mid-late twenties. Which means my thirties are staring me straight in the face, laughing in anticipation. And as much as Carrie Bradshaw may have assured me will be the best time of my life, I can’t help but feel a little sad that the next milestone age I’ll be able to celebrate is my eligibility for AARP.
My awareness of age has crept up on my slowly, but recently it started shouting “I’M OVER HERE!!” Here’s an example: my nickname is MC, which throws a lot of people off so I often use the line “It’s easy to remember, like M.C. Hammer, just picture me dancing baggy pants.” About a month ago I said this while introducing myself to a young teenager. She didn’t laugh (which is what I’m used to from such a hilarious joke), instead she gave me a blank stare and asked me a terrifying question. “Who’s M.C. Hammer?”
Surely, she was mistaken. So I started singing the song, to jog her memory, but I don’t know the lyrics to other than “Stop, Hammertime!” and “Dunn na na na, na na, na na, can’t touch this!” I considered doing the dance, but because I’m an uncoordinated white girl and this teenager’s face was nowhere near changing to an expression of recognition, I just defeatedly replied, “He was a famous rapper.”
“Oh, like D.J. Spitz-Walla?” Ok, that may not have actually been the name she referenced. But it might as well have been, because I had never heard of the supposed “artist” before, and I do sometimes listen to Top 40 radio.
And there it was. The generation gap. The vast cultural chasm between us that could only be bridged by sitting down and me telling her the significance of the phrase “Wassaaaaaap?!” and her explaining to me what the hell “twerking” is.
I know many of my older-than-26 readers are probably screaming at their computer screens “You’re not old! You’re only 26!! I remember rotary phones and something called 8-tracks!” Which leads me to my theory, that I’m already through half of my life and thus entitled to some of my complaining. Allow me to explain:
Our perception of the concept of time is speeding up each year of our life. Remember how slowly time moved as a child? Remember the horrific concept that you had to wait a full TWO HOURS between snack time and dinner time? Remember how forever away Christmas was from Halloween that you felt you would burst waiting so long? Now, the word “Christmas” evokes in me the reaction of saying “Oh crap, already?” while looking at my watch (which is weird because I haven’t worn a watch for years and we all use our phones now). It feels like time is speeding rapidly as age increases.
According to the above graph and explanation by some guy named “Tedd”, if I only live until I’m 80 (which, let’s be honest, with how delicious and cheap anything McDonald’s touches is, it’s all too likely), the halfway mark of my life was already 6 years ago. So, my life is in its decline. At the age of 26. So, basically, it’s been downhill for a while.
This uplifting thought of the day brought to you by Depends Adult Diapers (hey, doesn’t hurt to start and try to get corporate sponsorship now, right?)