I sometimes forget I’m in my thirties.
Not just because I am befuddled when a bartender doesn’t ask me for ID (reference borrowed from the fabulous Olivia Wilde) or young clerks at Aritizia address me as ‘ma’am’. I forget I’m in my 30s and a full fledged adult, because I still have alarmingly adolescent-type thoughts.
Last night was one of those such times. Seated on stage at Ironwood -literally, on the stage-drinking a pint of Village Blonde and sitting spitting distance from musician Craig Cardiff tapping my green boot to his soulful sound, I was struck.
I’m out on a weeknight. I should probably call my parents and let them know I will be late. But that I haven’t been drinking. That I’m safe. That I’m out with reliable people. That I will be still going to school tomorrow seeing it’s a Thursday night.
Then I have a laugh. Nope, that moment in time has passed. The only person I should be texting is my husband, but judging the time on the clock he will be sleeping by now. My only concern is the here and now, and remembering with great fondness a simpler time when life was about weeknight outings, live music, and bringing cash to the bar.