Am I old?
Am I old?
The scenario:
Dewey Beach is a small beach town by Rehobeth Beach. Dewey has good beach areas, plenty of hotels, and the strip of bars and clubs to keep the parties going...until 1 am when they close. My man and his buddies have gone to Dewey for several years running for his birthday celebration. But this year was a little different.
We arrived Friday, laid out by the pool, ate some food at Starboard, and prepared for our night out on the town.
As we walked up a driveway leading to two clubs, it was hard not to notice the prominent difference in atmosphere between these neighbors.
As we entered the silver-laced bar to the right, it occurs to me that we don't quite fit here. A couple is dancing a waltz on the lower deck by the band and much of the conversation reeks of retirement. Not to mention the bartender who thought she "got us" by carding us. Clearly we are the youngest ones in this establishment.
BUT, none of us were interested in the Paris-Britney obsessed crowd in the bar to the left. Personally, I didn't want to throw out a hip trying to make my way through the packed house of skin-baring babes (or should I say babies). The irony is that we all admitted that we used to love that kind of bar.
So does this mean we're old? We'd rather dance a jitterbug and talk about hair replacement than get beer spilled down our backs? And by the way, why are those are only two choices?
Note to self: Design stylish orthopedic shoes. Who said getting old had to be style-less?
The scenario:
Dewey Beach is a small beach town by Rehobeth Beach. Dewey has good beach areas, plenty of hotels, and the strip of bars and clubs to keep the parties going...until 1 am when they close. My man and his buddies have gone to Dewey for several years running for his birthday celebration. But this year was a little different.
We arrived Friday, laid out by the pool, ate some food at Starboard, and prepared for our night out on the town.
As we walked up a driveway leading to two clubs, it was hard not to notice the prominent difference in atmosphere between these neighbors.
- The club on the left was full to the brim with beverage-wielding young adults. While the dj pumped top 40 hits, there was some sort of contest going on that occasionally caused a whooping holler from the crowd in between pelvic-grinding dance moves.
- The club on the right was full, but all of the patrons were seated, enjoying their meals and perhaps a beer or glass of wine. A calypso band added a Marley-esque relaxed atmosphere. The noise this club yields, outside of the cool band beats, is a dull mumble of stimulating conversation.
As we entered the silver-laced bar to the right, it occurs to me that we don't quite fit here. A couple is dancing a waltz on the lower deck by the band and much of the conversation reeks of retirement. Not to mention the bartender who thought she "got us" by carding us. Clearly we are the youngest ones in this establishment.
BUT, none of us were interested in the Paris-Britney obsessed crowd in the bar to the left. Personally, I didn't want to throw out a hip trying to make my way through the packed house of skin-baring babes (or should I say babies). The irony is that we all admitted that we used to love that kind of bar.
So does this mean we're old? We'd rather dance a jitterbug and talk about hair replacement than get beer spilled down our backs? And by the way, why are those are only two choices?
Note to self: Design stylish orthopedic shoes. Who said getting old had to be style-less?
posted by Mrs. Mack @ 9:52 AM
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