Realizing you’re getting old is no fun at all

By Trent Modglin

We always swore we’d never turn into that guy.

Back in college, usually during football weekends, my friends and I used to notice the guys who were a little too old to be in our favorite bars. A few years beyond their prime, if you will, trying to fit back into the scene despite the fact they graduated long ago, male pattern baldness had set in, a gut was proof the ab machine was collecting dust and they had, for all intents and purposes, moved on with their lives.

But that was their mistake. They assumed they’d fit right back in, thought realistically that no one would notice the age difference, believed they retained enough game to buy a couple of co-eds a drink and not be on the receiving end of the looks that creepy old men get. They were wrong.

They stuck out like mules in the Kentucky Derby, and they were on their own island, as few people paid them much attention, mostly on purpose because they were invading our territory, exclusive as we thought it was, or should have been, at the time.

No doubt you’ve seen a few examples of that guy in your lifetime. Perhaps they bother you too. Or maybe “bother” is the wrong word. “Entertain,” possibly is the more fitting description. Either way, we used to joke about how we’d be able to tell when we became that guy and how we would inform one another of the awful, inevitable news, and how we’d be forced to change our ways to avoid becoming the butt of jokes and getting that sinking feeling of knowing we’re woefully out of place. Knowing we were (gulp) getting old.

Well, I’d like to think I’m not sliding down that slippery slope just yet, but I may have started teetering a bit, as sad as that is to admit at the tender age of 30.

What first got me thinking about losing the battle with Father Time is the fact I don’t recover as easily as I once did. I can still stay out late — that’s not a problem. But my body now takes umbrage the next morning. I used to spring out of bed and be able to tackle a day’s worth of activities, no matter how late I had been out the night before or how badly the bartender had decided to over-serve me. Now, I am no longer immune.

I also notice that if my schedule keeps me from the gym for a few days longer than I would like, I tend to be sore in places I’ve never been sore before. I wrenched my back in my basketball league about a month ago and walked like an old man for about a week. Finally, I decided I needed to sit in the way of some hot tub jets, and who’s in the tub resting their aching bones when I get to the locker room, but two old men I’ve never seen before at the gym. Me and two old men, complaining about their aches and pains. Make that three old men.

I notice the music is suddenly too loud at a lot of bars. Honestly, when was I previously OK with blaring music when I’m trying to talk to people? I must’ve been able to handle it before, based on how much I went out, because I doubt this is a new trend.

You also see less and less of some people when you get older. I used to have friends from my hometown stay with me on weekends pretty frequently. Now, unfortunately, I’m lucky if I talk to them on the phone once every couple months. Same goes for people right here in the city. I was warned this was an unfortunate inevitability that comes with age and maturity, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

The more I thought about it, the more it pained me. Am I getting old? I stopped at the house my friends Mark and Pete share, hoping for some reassurance.

Pete’s girlfriend spoke first. “I thought (turning 30) was awful,” she said. “It’s that point where you’ll never be considered fun or hot or youthful ever again. You look at your 20s for all of that, not your 30s.”

We laughed, but then we all pondered our own 30-year-old existence.

“I’ve had all these things with my body,” Pete said. “I’ve found you can’t do the things you used to do without hurting your back or legs or arms. And I feel like a dork walking into a store to buy the kind of jeans the kids wear. I feel like I should accept it, wear khakis with a polo shirt tucked in and penny loafers on my feet like my uncles.”

Then it was Mark’s turn for some perspective. “I don’t feel older by numbers,” he said. “I feel older by life experiences. Now I’m looking at what I want to accomplish. My 20s was about fun. Now I want to get somewhere. It’s more of a focus now, I guess you could say.”

Well said, but I’m not sure it makes me feel any better. I went to my first Dave Matthews show in about seven years in early July, and I felt like I might as well have been chaperoning a high school dance. Perhaps someone mistook me for that guy.

Speaking of which, my cousin’s son is entering high school in the fall. I remember holding him in their kitchen when they brought him home from the hospital. Almost makes my back hurt just thinking about it.

Trent Modglin
Publisher
The Real Chicago
Trent@TheRealChicago.org

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