So the other night we went to a local bar and grill for dinner.
My boys were thrilled with the fact that they have video games and whatnot that they could mess with while awaiting the food.
I remembered the days of my own youth, although I didn’t hang around suburban bar and grills with a clean, urban industrial aesthetic. My father took me to taverns with scarred furniture and smoke. But they had video games, and they had pinball machines, and they had pool tables where I could roll the cue ball back and forth. So I know the little sense of freedom one gets from roaming around them.
At the bar, three male friends sang, in unison, something I recognized but couldn’t immediately place. One of them had brought his girl, and when they finished, one of the guys high-fived the other and then was left hanging by the girl who was amused by the men’s behavior in that way that they sometimes are and maybe are not, actually. These guys weren’t twenty, either–definitely in their thirties or older.
The next day, I placed the song. The Numa Numa guy.
From 2004. So these guys were definitely not kids.
You know what made me feel old most of the experience? The two things:
- It took me a day to place the Numa Numa song.
- I am no longer the kind of man who hangs out with friends at a bar and grill and gives high fives for silly things. I mean, I do athletic things, so I give high fives, don’t get me wrong. But they’re for doing some drill at martial arts or running some distance.
Actually, you know what makes me feel old most of all? Getting older.