Ouch, That’s Old

If I’m getting called ancient when I’m 29, I cn’t wait till I’m 30.

About once a year, I stop by BU to talk to a journalism class about magazine writing. The first few years I did this, I worried that I didn’t really have enough experience to answer anybody’s questions with the weighty authority they might expect—I was hardly removed from college myself. But by now, at the ripe old age of 29, my trip to BU sparks an entirely different concern: how to avoid coming off as the old guy who thinks he’s wicked cool. For instance, I consider wearing my Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt to the class, but decide to go with a plain green tee instead. Ironically, to increase my coolness I’m trying not to appear as if I’m trying to be cool.

I don’t see 29 as exceptionally old, but I know that when I was in college I thought people in their late 20s were ancient. By the time you reach your mid-20s, however, you begin to become aware of your age, which for guys comes when you realize that you’re older than certain professional athletes. Your whole life, pro athletes are older than you, and then one day you’re watching a Celtics game and realize you’re actually older than Paul Pierce, and therefore you’re probably not ever going to make the NBA. This knowledge, though obvious all along, is profoundly unsettling.

So there I am at BU, answering some journalism questions, when one girl asks which of my columns has generated the most response. I reply that it was probably the one I did about joining MySpace, simply because MySpace offers such a convenient venue for communicating with people and offering feedback. At this point, another girl blurts, “Aren’t you kind of old to be on MySpace?”

I manage to stifle the first response that pops into my head—which involves a donkey and a suggestion of what this girl could do to improve her manners—and instead play it off with a joke. “C’mon,” I say, “I’m only 46.” Nobody laughs. Evidently, they think I might be 46. This has gone from bad to worse.

At the bottom of it, I’m afraid this girl is right: I’m Old Man River. The signs are everywhere: I bought PlayStation 2 essentially the first day it came out, but I’m having a hard time getting excited about PlayStation 3. I’ve never downloaded a ring tone. I often give up in the middle of a text message and just call. One of my friends recently bought a house in Weymouth. Another has a bid in for a place in Newburyport. Two (two!) friends of my wife (my wife!) are pregnant. I consider it unusual to go out on weeknights. This fall, for the first time in my life, I drove to Vermont for the sole purpose of looking at leaves on trees. Holy crap: I’m a leaf-peeper. That is f---ing lame.

It gets worse when historical perspective is applied. When I was in high school, there was no Internet. When I was in college, there was no such thing as a hybrid car and everyone thought HDTV was something you caught after engaging in high-risk behavior in Bangkok. I was already 24 when the iPod came out (back in my day, we used “CD changers”). Really, at this point I should preorder a casket and start wearing Depends undergarments.

If there’s a positive to nearing the big 3-0, it’s that I happen to be engaged in a job that requires me to exercise the infantile/immature/dangerous lobe of my brain on a regular basis. Last week I drove nonstop from New York to Miami for the sole purpose of racing a FedEx Overnight package that I’d shipped from Manhattan. I’ve taken strongman lessons, attended a sex toy–sales party and used a Bentley as a gypsy cab. I have plans to go indoor skydiving. So what are you doing that’s so great, Miss “Aren’t You a Little Old For MySpace?” Oh: preparing for finals and, a few months later, your impending entry into the cold and unforgiving world of adulthood, where all your friends have moved away and your future is a billowing cumulonimbus of uncertainty. But hey, at least you’re not 29.

I kid, of course. I realize you probably didn’t mean that statement to come out sounding as bitchy as it did, and, as a sign of good faith, if you were to send me a MySpace friend request, I’d approve it. But you can totally forget about making my Top 8.