Past My Prime?

In hopes for some remarkable experience, we venture into downtown.  Hair perfect, lip gloss shining, clutch in hand – off we were to our favorite bar.  In college, this territory was our stomping grounds.  Now, a bit older, shall we?  Why yes, we shall.

The place is a bit empty at first and we make a few laps around the area; we are feeling pretty good about ourselves and I don’t think we are wrong judging from the glances.  I’ll take it.

First drink:  Jack and Diet Coke.  Yes, Jack.  Our beverage of choice; and thank you Mr. Bartender for pouring a hearty one.  We’re about as girlie as you can get, but when it comes to the chick drinks – you can keep ‘em.  Being that that the bartender rembers us, we are also welcomed by some concoction in shot form.  I think tonight is going to be a good night.

As we cruise the perimeter, we people watch.  What the hell is she wearing?  Why does that pedophile-esque looking guy keep giving me the ’I'm trying to be sexy but I actually look creepy’ glance?  And as it is at every bar, there is the signature old man sitting by himself in hopes some pretty young thing will pay him some attention.

We’ve requested our favorite songs from the DJ – and being that he’s hot it makes it easier to get our flirt on, in turn getting the songs we want.  We move out to the dance floor to show how fabulous we are. 

Later on, I spy two girlfriends coming in.  We all dance, drink, check out the eye candy, and celebrate ‘funness’ in our late twenties, and some of us, thirties.  I am approached by a very young man – attractive, but young.  He asks me if I go to the local university, and I tell him, “I did.”  He says to me, “what happened?”  ha ha ha.  I respond with a smirk and, “I graduated.”  He looked shocked, and I told him I was too old for him; then I smiled and walked away.

The question crossed my mind – am I too old to be here?  Was this supposed to be out of my system already?  It’s not…