Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

I went to the Kelly Clarkson concert last night. No, it wasn’t Hannah Montana, asshat. But I did feel slightly like a chaperone. A woman decidedly past her prime, one who plays the Partridge Family Christmas Album on vinyl, swirling around on the flokati with a martini while the kids describe the mashed potatoes with words like “rad.” I’m getting old.

My suspicions were confirmed when last night’s bartender called me “ma’am” not once, but thrice, while I was ordering my first Stella. I immediately swiveled around to view myself in the Bud Light mirror; a humid and rainy night, my hair was admittedly not worthy of a glamour shot, and my outfit was more Sandra Dee than Shakira. But ma’am? I saw no apron, no burgeoning moustache or breakfast of Jimmy Dean sausage to confirm my aging status. Maybe he did.

The conversation clearly irked me, as upon arrival at the 4x6 shoebox in which Ms. Clarkson would be playing, I asked the female ushers, “Are we the oldest women here tonight?” I spit only some of my $7 Bud Light onto her vest as she dryly replied in the affirmative. She later claimed she was joking. It might have been my tears that changed her mind.

I felt old. I cared not what I wore to that show, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be talking to any boys, save those who spilled fruit punch on me or the desperate and orthodontia-ed who wanted a Mrs. Robinson to take to prom. So during the concert I decided to toss the label, among other things, including my dignity. I chair danced and clapped my hands loudly (and above my head!) and jumped up out of my chair, causing the earplug-wearing “sir” in front of me to do the same. I shook it. Only my ass was decidedly looser than the one I donned in ‘93. How I miss you Toad the Wet Sprocket. And the days before the scourge that is cellulite.

I felt like an 18 year old when I trolled Constitution Avenue for 20 soaked minutes while trying to hail a cab. When I arrived home, I made a ridiculous bag of microwave popcorn and poured myself a Pinot-sized glass of 30-year-old port, both of which I consumed in my cotton underwear. Because, while odd and uncomfortable to imagine, it was just my rebellious self, my empty apartment, and the kids. Just the Kris and her old woman rules. No mom to force me to bed, no Geometry homework left unfinished, no panic about flushed condoms, no worries about Shawn not texting me after gym class. Ma’am indeed.