“I’m really too young to be feeling this old.” – a Canadian rapper I no longer listen to.
In February, in a dimly lit restaurant over whiskey cocktails and seafood appetizers, C and I pondered our social lives as unmarried, non-parent 30somethings.
“Remember summer 2009?” I asked.
She nodded. A megawatt smile spreading across her brown face. “Man. It was so reckless. But so fun.”
2009. The last great summer of our adult lives. When life began and ended in downtown Cleveland and on Coventry Blvd. When Twitter was new. When we partied Wednesday through Sunday. When we adopted Cuervo Silver and lime juice as our poison of choice. When we lived on the scene and had electric, ill-advised rendezvous with all the wrong boys. When you could catch a Wale show on a Thursday night for $25.00. When a Cavs/Lakers game meant black, chauffeured cars with tinted windows could pull up to the club and next thing you knew, Lil Wayne was 300 feet away.
And that was just a Tuesday night in Cleveland, Ohio.
We couldn’t live that way forever. Club buddies turned rivals and taking Vodka shots turned to trading shade-laced subtweets. Heady affairs turned into toxic screaming matches and 2:00 AM text messages that hurt to answer and hurt even more to ignore. Sweaty nights on the dance floor became three-hour get-dressed-to-sip-drinks-and-tweet events. Mentally worn and emotionally weary, we retreated to our personal spaces, found smaller social circles, weened ourselves off the bad boys, spent Friday nights in with wine and Netflix binges, got better jobs, and only danced the night away when we crossed state lines.
We grew up.
We got boring.
And in the midst of our cushy, comfortable peace of mind, we got bored.
“This can’t be it,” I whined in February over whiskey cocktails and seafood appetizers. “There’s gotta be a way to be social adults without all the bullshit.”
In April, in a sparsely populated bar with classic R&B tunes as the soundtrack, with another compadre from the Infamous Summer of 2009, we said it again. “I’m not ready to be *this* old.”
“We gotta take it back to Summer 2009.”
So when my sister-in-law said it’d been too long since I visited her, my brother, and nephew in North Jersey, I booked a ticket for Memorial Day Weekend. When my homegirl asked if I wanted to go to the Roots Picnic, I said “Yes.” When I realized I hadn’t experienced Summertime Chi in over 10 years, I made plans to visit for the 4th. When I learned BBD, SWV, and En Vogue were playing in Detroit in late July, I marked the date on my calendar. When the Made in America festival line-up came out yesterday, I penciled it in.
I’m 33, single, childless, the most attractive I’ve ever been, with more money than I’ve ever had.
I’m really too young to be feeling this old.