It's like Sex and the Suburbs and 30 Rock all rolled into one…
While out at a bar a few nights ago, my friends and I were singing karaoke. We’re sort of regulars there; the owners and karaoke DJ know us by name. After singing my usually impassioned rendition of Because The Night (as it was cover-oke), I saddled up to the bar to refill my beer. A guy next to me lit up with recognition and nudged me to get my attention. Turning to face him he said that he loved my voice, and that each time I got up to sing, he’d always tell his friends he liked my take on a song more than the original. Naturally I thanked him. The compliment did mean a lot!
Anyhow, we got to talking and he kept coming back to tell me that I was truly a child of the 1990’s. And yes, to be honest, I was old enough to appreciate the decade in its entirety. From the grunge movement to stirrup pants to the starts of the modern indie rock DYI movement. I was there for the highlights and the lowlights. So he then announced, with the voice of a man trying to impress, that he was born in 1987 and he was also a child of the 90’s. It was then that I realized he was six years younger than me. I had a choice: lie and make up an age or tell the truth.
With a sip of my Blue Moon (the Rare Vos was out), I looked to him and said that I was born in 1981. I said it proudly, knowing that my roots need a touch up and you can see the starts of the grey hair again. The bar was dark though; there was little chance he’d see that. He called me a liar, and I shook my head and told him I was telling the truth – that I was going to be 29 on Columbus Day.
At which point he turned to his friends, and shook his head. I lingered for an awkward moment, thinking that perhaps he was replying to one of them. Alas, he was not. He was actively ignoring me. Because of my age.