Acting Your Age

On Fri night, we didn’t head out to dinner until nearly 10pm.  Which meant a few things…1)  I couldn’t put the boiled peanuts and pickled vegetables that we ordered to start into my mouth fast enough (yes, you read correctly, our starters at Magnolia included boiled peanuts and pickled veggies, and they both absolutely correct so stop making faces) due to my extreme hunger by that point.  2)  We didn’t have to wait for a table which NEVER happens.  3)  It was bound to be a bit more rambunctious than usual given the later hour.

Ok maybe it’s really pretty lame that I’m using 10pm, Friday, and later hour all in the same line of thought, but these days I’m gearing up to turn 29, thinking it really means I’m pretty much 30, and feeling like I frequently spend my weekends in the manner that bests suits someone who is a suburban 40.  I think I’m mostly ok with that.  But anyway, the debauchery was eventually brought, right around bite 2 of my delicious bleu cheese and bacon burger when a group of raucous 50 year olds walked into the bar.

The event:  a man’s 50^th birthday.  The crowd:  weird (sorry, can’t really come up with any better adjectives to describe the assortment of individuals).  The mode of transportation:  an SF cable-car style party bus.  The attire:  large balloon hats.  Ok, so there was really only one balloon hat.  It was on the head of the birthday boy.  But it counts anyway.

And it really started to count when the wearer of the hat decided it hilarious to pop one of the balloons.  I startle easily.  So pop number 1 nearly caused me to spit out a bite of my food. Or maybe choke on it. I don’t know. It scared me.  I was certainly not amused. 

The birthday crowd on the other hand certainly was amused.  The balloon popping continued, picking up pace. I remember when I was little, spending the night at my cousin heather’s house, and during summer thunderstorms, we’d count the seconds b/t thunder claps (the closer the storm got, the less time b/t the claps).  I liken the balloon situation to the storm:  time b/t pops quickened, laughter of the 50 year old party grew, silence among the other patrons deepened, stares raged, and the storm gathered force.  The downpour I suppose then was when a staff member actually took the balloon hat away.  The storm didn’t last long, however, as it was returned, and not less than a minute later, Mr. Happy 50 was at his antics again.  Very soon, they departed, hopping into their classy cable car and taking off for greener pastures where they could pop balloons until their hearts’ content, or at least until the hat was no longer a hat but simply a mass of sad deflated rubber pieces. 

My emotions were mixed as the crowd departed, and I finished up my burger.  I was certainly sated, but that is neither here nor there as it’s a feeling related to my food consumption rather than the birthday antics.  I was relieved, as I’d been startled so many times I was on the verge of needing a xanax.  But I suppose I was also a little wistful, wondering, will I grow down by the time I’m 50?  Is there hope that I, too, can someday be a little debaucherous at a riper age?  I invite you, if you’re reading, and you’re still around me by that point, to remember this post, and to help me reach that goal – even if it only means crafting me a balloon hat and encouraging some bad behavior on my part in public…