I’ve taken a hiatus from writing this blog because, well, nothing seems all that funny or light these days. With the world/our country imploding, I’m not really finding humor in any of the crazed, manic, idiotic and/or terrifying things Trump does, says or tweets.

That said, due to of a bit of gentle prodding by some of my friends (and by “gentle” I mean, when they ask me things like what the fuck my problem is/”did you just give up on it” or the like. They’re a tender folk ), I thought I’d take a stab at writing again. I’ll call this post “I used to be cool,” inspired by my foray into a weekend body conditioning class at my gym.

Let me start by saying that I like my weekday body conditioning/barre classes at my gym and find them challenging. Admittedly, a small joy is that I am often one of the fittest people in the room.  While this may sound like I’m bragging in a wildly obnoxious way, I assure you I am not:  My mere presence in any given class often lowers the mean/median/average age by a decade if not two.  Turns out that the people who can/do attend 8 or 9 a.m. classes during the week (at least on the Upper West Side) tend to be stay-at-home moms and the old.  Sure there is sometimes the one-off 20-something in the class (looking vaguely horrified by the jazzercise class she fears she has accidentally stumbled into), but mostly I’m dealing with a middle-aged to actually old crew. When I’m with them, I got it going on.

What I realized during my class on Saturday is that the weekday morning crew does not really represent the population who typically attends gym classes.  On Saturday, the class  I went to was full of 20 and 30-somethings. And me. Needless to say, I was not one of the fittest people in the room – or even in the top half slash three-quarters.  Needles to say, this class was less enjoyable.

Anyway, after the ego hit – I mean class –  I started thinking about how different my life is at 45 than it was at 25. I know this is not a mind-blowing concept, but it’s almost like I am a completely different individual, fitness aside. I don’t just mean that now I have kids/am married, or that my body has aged (I housed two children in this gut, people), or that I have aches and pains that I didn’t use to have (check). But these two decades have transformed me in ways I did not foresee. As in, maybe I’ve turned from cool (or at least somewhat fun) to kind of lame?

Some of examples:

Then: Liked to try new restaurants, particularly on the Lower East Side/East Village, in part because the restaurants there tended to be cheaper, but also because they were happening (yes, I’m using that word, work with me here) . Given the 5:30 or 10:30 pm choice of reservation as is often the way here in good old NYC, I would opt for 10:30 (duh).

Now:  Like to try new restaurants, but generally only if they are accessible by taking one and only one subway line. This means I’m eating in Harlem, the West Village or Tribeca. Oh, or Chelsea, but there are no good restaurants in Chelsea.  When 5:30 and 1o:30 are the only options, I wonder who the hell eats at 10:30 and what their problem is. If I’m honest, I also wonder who the hell eats at 9 because, like, don’t they get hungry beforehand?  I do not yet take the 5:30 reservation, but have seriously considered it because, come on, is it that lame (it is, I know it is. But 6? Done.)?

As an aside, on Saturday night, in a fit of some kind of pique or delirium from the aforementioned gymnasium class, I ventured out of my comfort zone and went to a new restaurant that was more than one subway ride away from my abode. I was downtown (ish) and east, people. For this venture I was punished. Aggressively so. Through some tragic misunderstanding on my part, the place DID NOT SERVE ALCOHOL. I repeat, there was no alcohol. Which no one seemed to mind but us, so I took a gander around to observe the rest of the clientele: Were they very religious or something? It was then that I noticed that everyone around us was 60+ save one table of touristy 30ish year-olds. It was 6:45 pm. Soon, the table next to us arrived for their 7:30 reservation. They were in their 70s and had the better dinner slot. It felt like my gym class, only I was moderately less sweaty and now three decades younger than my brethren.

Then: As I may have mentioned in previous posts, when I was 25, my grad school posse had a rule that when out, we “couldn’t” be without a drink, which meant buying beer at the bodega/Korean deli on the corner as we did this thing called “bar hopping.” That also meant that as I rolled into bar number two or three at 1 am, I was willing to stand ass-to-ass with strangers in crowded bars, especially if they had good music or dancing or, let’s be real, cute guys.

Now: Once I arrive at a bar (and by “bar,” I mean the bar area of a restaurant), I’m there for the night. If that bar does not have a seat for me – with ample spacing between the seats I might add  –  I leave. Immediately.

Then: Left home on Upper West Side between 10 p.m. and midnight to head downtown.

Now:  Do not leave home on Upper West Side after 7 p.m. for obvious reasons (just in case I have to translate for those who have not slid into this new (ish) state of lameness: It’s too late to go out). A good friend could push me to leave at 7:30 if she was willing to, say, meet on my block.

Then: Mocked my parents for going to bed at 9:30.

Now: Jealous of my parents when they go to bed at 9:30 (though I might add it seems that these days, they have more of an active social life than I do. That’s a different topic for a different day).

Then: Mocked my parents for not knowing what the Macarena/voguing or the running man (yes, the running man) was.

Now: Was mocked by my own flesh and blood for not knowing what “dabbing” is (I do now, but I still don’t do it “right”) or how to properly use the word “epic.” I was informed not so delicately that no one says “that’s the bomb” anymore (they should) and that “burn” and “dis” are two different things. I also recently debated with a friend whether teens these days still use the term “french kissing” (will keep you posted) or if that’s something of yore.

Then: In the dead of winter, would wear dresses without tights. The deciding factor for purchasing a winter coat was its “style.” Warmth did not factor in (froze my ass off, but I looked good doing it. Or thought I did anyway). Wore uncomfortable heels because they were “sexy” and made my legs look good.

Now: Don’t. I mean, none of it. In fact, own a double-layered winter coat made in Canada because “the Canadians know from cold.”

Then: Never drank at home alone, that was for alcoholics.

Now: I have kids; you see where I’m going with this.

Maybe the lamest, least cool thing of all? I like it like this.

And to my weekday gym class pals (though I’m not actually friends with them – or really, they’re not friends with me; they have their own clique that I’m apparently not part of, just saying): See you tomorrow! I’ll be the young cool one.