Bar etiquette at 42 vs 22: The age debate

This past Saturday night, Hubby and I met up with some friends of mine at a local Irish pub. It goes without saying that just being in an Irish pub, a lot of drinking, dancing and overall shenanigans would occur, which was a-okay with me. The kids were safe home with a sitter and mama needed a release. I was looking good, I was feeling good, and the chances of me peeing my pants when laughing too hard was at an all time low (bladder control after 2 kids is a bitch.)

I’m not sure if it’s age, growing less patient over the years or complete disdain for young stupid people, but I can’t seem to go out anymore without the words ‘ohmygod’ and ‘what the fuck is she thinking?!’ leaving my lips. Only when in an environment of concentrated post-adolescents do I begin to wonder…did I act this stupid when I was 22? Was my behavior so immature and desperate that only Neanderthals would be attracted to me? Did my self-esteem depend on others opinions? Did I seek the approval of men that would only talk to me because of my tits, finding this totally acceptable?!

OH THE HUMANITY!

Suddenly, the differences between Table-Dancing Tara at age 22 and 42-year-old Tara who can’t even climb onto the table because it hurts my knees becomes blaringly obvious. But with age comes experience and clarity. The things I could teach those precious little girls…

At 22 ~ Wearing the shortest skirt and the lowest cut top I have will get me more attention, more drinks and the possibility of meeting the man of my dreams.

At 42 ~ If I even attempted to wear a super short skirt, my vagina would fall out, and wearing a low cut top would only cause serious injury to anyone within a 2-foot parameter. Not sexy.

 

At 22 ~ Giggling and flipping my hair at cute guys will make them think I like them, hence, more drinks and attention.

At 42 ~ If you see me giggling and flipping my hair, that means I’ve forgotten to take my meds that day. Just direct me to the nearest Walgreens pharmacy.

 

At 22 ~ Always leave yourself open to conversation, regardless of who’s hitting on you. Age or appearance should not distract you.

At 42 ~ If a pretty young thing approaches me, I will shut that party down post-haste. I will cock-block that shit quicker than you can say Wilfred Brimley. I know that I look younger than I really am, but in reality they have no idea who they’re hitting up. The speech usually goes ‘You think this is hot?! I’m a twice-married mother of 2 that has lived all over the country, and has seen and experienced things only written about in bad Hollywood movies. I drive a Freestyle, complete with child seat, 3-day-old sippy cups and enough fruit bars ground into the carpet to feed a small Ethiopian family for a week. I pee my pants when I sneeze too hard and spend hours each month covering my grey hair. My daycare bills are more than your mortgage and I’m hoping to go into perimenopause soon so all this period crap stops. Soon. And the cherry on the cake of this whole situation is that technically, I could have given birth to you. Think I’m still sexy? Still want a piece of this?! Yea, didn’t think so.' Snap, boom!

 

At 22 ~ Assuming the guy will pay the bill, because that’s what guys do.

At 42 ~ I’ll pay my own bill. I can handle my business, make my own money and refuse to feel obligated to owe anyone anything. Getting into my pants requires more than paying the bar tab, but I’ll give you a gold star for effort.

 

At 22 – If I drink too much and fall off the bar stool, it’s ok. People will find this endearing and laugh.

At 42 – If I drink too much, you run risk of me crying about my last epidural and reminiscing about that day in high school, back in 1988, when I showed up at prom wearing turquoise ruched taffeta, thinking it would be acceptable.

OH THE HUMANITY!

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