When did we get to be so old?

A youthful indulgence, expressing faux nostalgia and existential examination, such as:
The practice of a person who are still young (and in early 20s still very young), turning to another similarly aged person (or writing through online chat or saying down the phone): ‘I feel so old; when did we get to be so old?’ Of course what we really mean is: when did I get to be so square? It seems to us as if we woke up one day and realized that we were happy coming home from work, spending our evenings at home and falling asleep at 11pm. Happier than when we were going out to the pub and getting pissed on weeknights and dancing for hours and having adventures running around the streets in the pouring rain? Perhaps. Along with those days of being ‘cool and rebellious’ came many chasms of emptiness and desolation and various forms of existential despair in the come-down from those highs. So when we say ‘when did we get to be so old’ we are actually wearing it as a badge of honour. We are the enlightened ones now, those who have ‘realized’ that we are having fun living the lives we bemoaned as boring. Yes we have are slowly turning into our parents just as they stopped being us when they were our age. But rather than look at it with the horror that we did in our school and college days we are looking forward to living this comforting boring life for a couple decades more at least.

I think I first uttered these words (wdwgtbso) at the advanced age of 18, considering myself something of a rock concert veteran, following a decision at a concert not to push my way to the front and spent an hour and a half defending my place against moshers. I stood at the back and low and behold I could still see and hear the band. ‘I feel too old and tired to do that anymore’ I proudly proclaimed to my friends. I did not know what lifestyle of ancients I would soon embrace? Then I was old but not too old. I still avowed my intention to never be middle-class and live in the suburbs and care about brands of Hoovers. Now I not only forego mocking my dad when he self-deprecatingly tells me news about his new shed, but wish that I too was in a position to have a shed and tell people about it. (p.s. Dad: can’t wait to see the shed!)

One further advantage of ‘when did we get to be so old’ is that it is the perfect starter for reminiscing fondly about what we did before we had one foot in the grave. Now we can boast about our wild times (though they were barely a couple years ago) and exaggerate the anti-authority attitudes and debauchery to far greater levels than they ever were. ‘Do you remember the time we stole the eggs and woke up in a boat?’ ‘Yeah and when we stopped the car in the middle of an intersection and mooned that bus full of old ladies?’ ‘Yeah and when we hiked 3000 meters to that kickass monestary and dropped acid with those monks?’*

*None of these incidents actually happened to me. My rebel days are FAR too debaucherous to share on this blog as they might offend the delicate sensibilities of some older readers.

Because the truth is also that while we, the still quite young, are content with the direction that life is going in, we are still jealous of those people living far more cool and adventurous lives to ours. That’s why we still look at websites with pictures of fashionable people going to exclusive night clubs drinking absinthe. We pour jealously over our friends’ pictures of their hilarious costume party on facebook and make jokes about hipsters. We still long to be cool (i.e. have fun) but we don’t have the energy, the finances, the inclination. Blah blah blah. We don’t really want to be cool anymore though because if you were reading above I already said we were having fun being boring. That’s why we used to have friends over and play at being grown up by having a dinner party followed by light jazz and conversation, the same way we used to play house when we were children. Now we find infinite satisfaction in shopping for tupperware and bath mats not in a ‘first-apartment college’ type of way but because we really need something to put the spices in and we’re sick of using an old rag to wipe our wet feet.

Ok but I’m only 23 and I did move to India, but I still want to be part of the square club. Can I submit my application before the committee?

I could be handy mending a fuse
when your lights had gone
You could knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday Mornings, go for a ride
Doing the garden digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?

-Paul McCartney

My Summer of Dust

The world is full of dust. Consequently most of it seems to be concentrated in my general vicinity. Now I am full to the brim. When we walk out of the office and catch a rickshaw home the temperature has dropped at 15 degrees from the scorching midday temperatures of the Delhi May sun. Relief is on the way but what form of relief is this? Dark clouds indicate a downpour is imminent but there is a general pattern when it rains in Delhi in summer. Hailstones and a fierce dust storm will precede the rain shower, all to the accompaniment of vigorous thunder and lightning. We time our departure perfectly to coincide with the gale of dust, which the still hot wind lifts up and deposits in our faces as we peer for transport in the hastening dusk. Finally we succeed in obtaining a rickshaw and set off into evening traffic. Dust mixes with the exhaust of other rickshaws, motorbikes, cars, buses, trucks and other uncategorized motor vehicles to add further flavour to the journey as we inch through the streets in our open auto. Scratch my nose or wipe a dab of sweat from my brown deposits a line of grit on the finger. When I comb my hair, the comb will turn black. A few days ago we stopped at the market on the way home and walked the last five minutes. Suddenly a dust tornado arose out of nowhere. The visablity dropped to a few inches in a few seconds. Desparately clutching for sunglasses and hankerchiefs. Walking sideways with nowhere to escape. Now in the auto we pick up speed again. Big fat rain drops splatter on the windshield and in through the sides. Home at last and into the shower, water made brown rushing to the drain. Breathing a little easier now standing out on the terrace watching the lightning. It has been going on for nearly an hour already, flashing in all directions and comes around to view, two bolts meeting horizontally in the sky. The thunder does not roar; it purrs somewhere distant. The rain is full of dust.

Ask me who made the world
I will avert my eyes and laugh
I will clap sudden fingers to my lips
and turn to someone else
while you lean forward trying to understand
the muffled shouting of my mind
notes from a drowned and living trumpet

-Connie Converse