An aging Drew forced to face the truth

Page 9

Well, it's finally true. After all these years of denying it I have finally been forced to acknowledge, if not accept the horrible fact that in today's youth-oriented world, I am now officially and uncategorically classified as "old". This at the seemingly innocent but obviously over-the-hill age of 32 grand years old. Tragically, I am no longer one of "us". I am now politically aligned with "them."

Now, I realize that some, especially those that have had more time to acclimatize themselves to life in the "them" zone, may not be sympathetic of my predicament. But for those of us fresh out of the "us" area, the realization that I have embarked on those first few steps down the stairway of age can be quite startling and disconcerting.

Any of all the innocuous places to receive this stunning revelation - it came to

me in the fair town of Normal, Illinois. Truly a demon town. I was there attending a conference at the Illinois State University theater department on Aboriginal theater and playwriting when somebody had the ill-advised idea for a cluster of us to go forth and sample some of the night life offered by this quaint little hamlet a couple of hours south of Chicago.

There, in a crowded bar called Rocky's, packed solid with life forms commonly referred to as university students, was my apparent new status made ever so known to me. It all started with the six of us elbowing our way past herds of rambunctious youth trying to find a table. It was a journey that was, for me, a personal version of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

My first clue should have been the theme of the night in that bar. Several students in our workshop had told us it was Bad Music Night and with a certain amount of glee, further informed us that meant music from the 1970s and 80s. Bad Music Night. Bad Music. My music. Not an auspicious beginning.

All around us were 20-year-old bodies gyrating to the sounds of We Got The Beat by the Gogos, Shout from the Animal House soundtrack, and Two Out of Three Ain't Bad by Meatloaf. This classic music was for them nostalgia.

Then out of nowhere came the familiar brass horn opening of a now forgotten era. It was the Village People's YMCA blaring over the speakers and the six of us smiled at each other, recognizing an old friend. Automatically we started doing the proper and appropriate hand signals that must accompany this song. You remember, the hands copying the spelling of the title song.

There we were, the six of us in our 30s, sitting at the table, arms flailing about us in wild abandon. Then I noticed - we were the only ones doing it. Nobody, outside of

our table and I guess our little world, had the faintest inclination of what we were doing. Evidently, like bell bottoms, the proper art of singing YMCA had died out. One student remarks it looked like we were signalling an aircraft. Suddenly the enthusiasm of the movement seemed to evaporate.

So now, quite glum and feeling ancient, we went back to people watching. And I couldn't help but notice the young women in tops that showed off their belly buttons and football-like men strutting around the dance floor in form-hugging shirts. A friend and I came to the painful realizaton it had been a long time since either of us had shown such pride in revealing our stomachs.

It was downhill from there. A waiter, looking barely old enough to drink himself, plopped down a large container full of a golden liquid. You definitely know you're a little long in the tooth when you look at a pitcher of beer like it's a foreign object.

Knowing that misery loves company, we all started reminiscing about the last time we had gone out on the town dancing and drinking. Only one person had done it in the last 18 months and he kept looking at his watch wondering what time his wife expected him at home. The hole kept getting deeper and deeper.

So, as I sat there, aging, in that bar in Normal, Illinois, on Band Music Night, in my mind I began to hear the familir strains of Bruce Cockburn's classic song The Trouble With Normal Is It Always Gets Worse. He's obviously been there.