By the end of the year, I will be 30 years old. I won’t exactly be calling up Alex Trebek on my Jitterbug to discuss my Colonial Penn coverage anytime soon, but I am slowly realizing the mortality of my youth and thinking about the type of old person I’d like to be. I’m noticing more and more I’m switching the station when the beat of anything involving twerking or popping drops, when not even 5 years ago I’d be turning it up making a music video in my vanity mirror. I dread getting on the bus between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 because the school kids will terrorize harass passengers who really just want to get home without being surrounded by the incessant need to be seen and heard. I’m becoming conscious of the fact that I sound more and more like my mother when I say that most of these kids need their asses whooped.
There’s nothing wrong with growing a little older and wiser and finding all those things you once thought were really cool suddenly annoying and kind of pointless. That’s what’s supposed to happen when you grow up. And while there are a few elderly people who make evil look adorable, some just grow up to think their age gives them a buddy pass to be judgmental, condescending assholes.
The day I become someone’s mom I’ll probably put an end to my purple highlights and replace my Kendrick Lamar callertune with a safe default ring. I don’t even have to be called the “cool” mom, but if you see me doing any of the following just because I’m that much closer to filing for Social Security, put me in a assisted living facility with a nurse with unresolved mommy issues. Trust me, I’ll deserve it.