reunion
Dinner tonight was at a Mexican joint tucked away in a Rio Rancho strip mall. For the first half of the meal, we were by ourselves, being ourselves. And then, in trooped nearly two dozen teenagers on one ginormous group date. Some were dressed up in party frocks, suits and fedoras. Some were wearing very little in the way of clothing. There were cheery introductions of girlfriends and cousins who'd been caught up in the social vortex; the whole room buzzed with conversation and inside jokes across the long-ass table.
"It's like looking at our wasted youth," Adam mused. "I mean, if you knew then what you know now..."
"Wait," I said. "We've gotta lay some ground rules here. Am I seventeen then or seventeen now?"
"Seventeen now," he said. "No prior knowledge, no scaring the children with the second coming of Bush. No stock tips. No, you're just seventeen years old now with the lessons of a 27-year-old knockin' around the cranium."
"I'd be blind drunk weekend until I was twenty-three," I deadpanned.
Adam looked at the kids working through the intricacy of splitting a combination plate and the check. "Oh, hell yeah," he said. "You realize that right now we're that old couple in the corner?"
"Yep," I said. "And for once, I'm okay with it."
"We drive cool cars that our parents didn't force on us."
"We remember the first Clinton administration."
"We can buy booze without being hassled."
"We can rent cars without being hassled."
(Please note that the kicker of being ten years removed from high school wasn't the wine, but the ability to rent a car. Oh, my God. We're such nerds.)
To continue the trip down memory lane, Adam popped in Clerks. The Doc Martins, the bloused jeans. The flannel. The pre-impeachment discussion of Is Oral Sex Sex? "You know what makes me sad?" Adam asked. "That those kids won't get their own version of this."
"Are you kidding me?" I countered. "Those kids don't even know what a video is. They think grunge is crap under their finger nails. Eddie Veder's always had long hair and Billy Corrigan's always been bald."
We weep for the future generation.
"It's like looking at our wasted youth," Adam mused. "I mean, if you knew then what you know now..."
"Wait," I said. "We've gotta lay some ground rules here. Am I seventeen then or seventeen now?"
"Seventeen now," he said. "No prior knowledge, no scaring the children with the second coming of Bush. No stock tips. No, you're just seventeen years old now with the lessons of a 27-year-old knockin' around the cranium."
"I'd be blind drunk weekend until I was twenty-three," I deadpanned.
Adam looked at the kids working through the intricacy of splitting a combination plate and the check. "Oh, hell yeah," he said. "You realize that right now we're that old couple in the corner?"
"Yep," I said. "And for once, I'm okay with it."
"We drive cool cars that our parents didn't force on us."
"We remember the first Clinton administration."
"We can buy booze without being hassled."
"We can rent cars without being hassled."
(Please note that the kicker of being ten years removed from high school wasn't the wine, but the ability to rent a car. Oh, my God. We're such nerds.)
To continue the trip down memory lane, Adam popped in Clerks. The Doc Martins, the bloused jeans. The flannel. The pre-impeachment discussion of Is Oral Sex Sex? "You know what makes me sad?" Adam asked. "That those kids won't get their own version of this."
"Are you kidding me?" I countered. "Those kids don't even know what a video is. They think grunge is crap under their finger nails. Eddie Veder's always had long hair and Billy Corrigan's always been bald."
We weep for the future generation.
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