Written by Emma Grosskopf
For anyone who knew me during my sophomore year, I am truly, truly sorry.
In my youth (two years seems so long ago!), I was living a lifestyle that was far from sustainable. There were random Thursday mornings where I would wake up on a couch in a Blue Ridge common room in a shirt that I didn’t fully recognize, or Friday afternoons where my mother would be headed to RC to pick me up for fall break where I would have to spend 45 minutes in the shower trying to rid myself of the grime of the night before, before she could see it and be disappointed in her only daughter. Yikes.
But don’t get me wrong. That was a blast.
But those times have passed. In the words of the genius of Fleetwood Mac: “Time makes you bolder, children get older, and I’m getting older, too.”
They had it right. Not to be dramatic, but I feel SO old. Practically elderly. Ancient.
Actual age-wise, I am 22. Physically, I feel 55 and emotionally, I am like a wizened old hag who grumbles constantly about the annoyance of youth.
Back in the day, my ideal Friday night would have been to hang out with friends, go out to a party and get pretty wild. Even if I was staying in, back then I would have been acting up somehow.
And Saturday nights? LORD HAVE MERCY, don’t even get me started.
But now that I am a grandmother (and the 11-year-olds that I tutor in French LOVE to remind me of how much older than them I am), I give a full-body eye-roll-and-exhale combo if someone has the audacity to suggest that I go out on a Friday AND a Saturday. The only time that I go out during the week is to College Night, which is one of the perks of being 21+ in the bustling metropolis that is Salem, VA, and even then I can only go out to flaunt my wares sometimes, because every other Thursday is layout night for the BA!
It’s 2018, and we are securing the bag, people. I can’t just gallivant all the time, and I wouldn’t have the energy even if I could!
Going out twice in a weekend is a rare occurrence for me now, when I would rather curl up with my husband pillow in bed, watch Phantom of the Opera (again) and go to bed by 11.
That isn’t to say that I won’t be out here busting a move during my senior year of college. I will be both out AND about, but y’all can’t be expecting me to be make an appearance at every event. I have to pick and choose my social obligations, and sometimes, I’m sorry, I’ll choose my bed over a sweaty basement, warm beer and falling down the steps at a party. I’m only human, people.
Whatever. I’m not here to lecture about the passage of time, but I just want to stand in solidarity with all of the other grandmamas and grandpaps out there: go ahead and put away that bottle of Malibu during the week. Wave goodbye at the youngins as they leave for the night. Go to bed at 10 p.m. on a Friday.
We’ve all earned it, and let’s face it: We’re not as young as we used to be.
