There are few things more steadying than realising you’re getting old.
That punch-in-the-gut feeling comes most for me during music festival season. Once upon a time it was my domain. I lived for music festivals.
My day would be perfectly planned, bouncing from stage to stage, never stopping to sit down, never missing a beat.
But now, as I approach the “rock star” age, no thought is more repellent than that of spending the day outside, away from my creature comforts, surrounded by thudding basslines.
The line-ups of the popular festivals are foreign to me. Rainbow Rhinos, Troupe of Gypsies, DJ Midstrength – sorry, who?
Hour after hour in the blazing sun, sticky with sunscreen, constantly thirsty. And then there’s the queues, for toilets, for food, for coming and going. Oh, and glitter.
That has got to be a definite sign of old age: sheer exhaustion at the thought of doing anything at all.
I’m not quite sure when I got more excited about putting $100 into a savings account, rather than spending it on a festival ticket.
It must have been a gradual thing – a pass on one festival flows into another, then another, and before you know it you’re actively scowling at anyone under the age of 21 and your knees ache when it rains.
It’s not the only allergy I’ve developed in my matured 20s. I also constantly berate anyone who texts and drives, chase people with sunscreen as soon as they think about going outside, and have to fight the urge to yell “cover your kidneys” to young women in midriff tops. The youth these days, I mutter as I shake my head.
I would attempt to reference Blink 182’s Dammit (I guess this is growing up) to the next generation of young people, but Blink’s biggest hits were released before they were born.
Crikey, I am getting old.