Category: getting old

Age, getting old, Life

Progressive Glasses Changed My Life

littleshoeprincess

A little more than a decade ago, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I no longer had the eyesight of a 25 year old. I bought my first pair of reading glasses.

And I’ll admit, they changed my life. First of all, I could SEE – my texts, the computer screen, even the food on my plate looked sharp and more appetizing. Second, I liked the way I looked with glasses, even furthering my resemblance to my celebrity doppelgänger Julia Louis-Dreyfus (in her Elaine Benes days).

The love affair started slowly. One pair at home, a pair to leave at work. Then, more. Tortoise shell. Teal with wooden arms. Oversized. Sunglasses! I was obsessed with finding stores that had a Peepers kiosk. Book stores. Whole Foods. I even found readers at a gift shop in the Charlotte airport. I was obsessed. They were the perfect accessory – they always fit, and they could match your outfits and your moods.

Even though the glasses were classified as “readers” I wore them all the time – cooking, watching TV, living life. It was just easier to leave them on my face. I climbed my way from a 1.25 magnification all the way up to a 2.75 over the course of a decade. My computer and phone screens were crystal clear, but the world around me was now fuzzy. In the car, the GPS was sharp, the road was soft. My readers spent half their time on my face and the other half on my head (inevitably falling off if I bent to far in any direction). So I schlepped to the eye doctor.

“Have I killed my eyes by wearing these all the time? Am I making myself blind?” I asked. Like, did I do this to myself, this dependency on glasses?

The doctor gave me that look doctors give you when you ask a ridiculous medical question, or tell them that you used Dr. Google for a diagnosis. “That is a myth. You cannot make your eyes worse by wearing glasses, just as you cannot make your child’s feet grow by buying them bigger shoes.”

Fair point.

I walked out with a prescription for progressive glasses, feeling 80 years old. However, I was determined to see life clearly again, so off to Warby Parker I went.

Two weeks later, these babies came in the mail:

The Esme. Photo: Warby Parker

I had heard horror stores about progressive lenses being hard to get used to, people literally missing steps and falling, and incredible headaches. The first few hours, I did have a headache. And then, it just went away. I surprised myself with how quickly I adjusted to the different lens strengths. After two days, I never wanted to take them off.

I. Could. See.

Things I didn’t realize I was doing in a fuzzy haze until I put these glasses one:

  • Chopping/slicing/mincing and everything else needed to prepare dinner. How I didn’t lose a finger is beyond me!
  • Driving. I knew it was a little fuzzy, but driving with these glasses honestly made me wonder how I was driving around before!
  • Watching TV. I used to take my readers off for TV because it was so far away. But apparently I needed just a lower strength to see the TV clearly because I was once again able to read text messages on people’s phones on the screen.
  • Everything else in life was just…clearer and better.

I feel very progressive in my progressives! And I have even convinced Mr. KK to also get progressive glasses because I don’t want to be 80 years old by myself in this house.

Age, getting old

I’m in my ma’am era.

littleshoeprincess

You never forget your first time.

The first time I was ma’amed, I was in my 30s, in a Starbucks in Westport, Connecticut. It was the afternoon, and I had walked down with some coworkers for an afternoon pick-me-up during a new business pitch. The barista finished my order, handed my drink to me and said, “Here you go, ma’am.”

Um, excuse me?

I walked away in a daze. I had been ma’amed. If you worked at the Westport, Connecticut Starbuck downtown around 2005, you made a very big impression on me. And not in a good way.

Was I old enough to be a ma’am in my early thirties? Did I LOOK like a ma’am? I’m on the short side, so I often hear that I appear younger than I actually am. Did that barista ma’am everyone and I was just lumped in with the general public? Did I look like the general public??

I chalked it up to a severe misjudgement on the barista’s part.

Shortly after that scarring experience, I was a grocery store and the lovely cashier handed me my receipt with a sweet, “Here you go, Miss.” And all was right in the world again.

I knew I couldn’t hold onto my Miss-dom forever. There would be a time when it just wasn’t feasible anymore: my crow’s feet would be too visible; my gray hair would give me away; I had that look of someone who has lived half a century and wasn’t taking any bullshit.

And that time has come.

This past summer I was picking up Little Mister from camp. The slew of camp counselors this year looked like they were barely out of middle school, let alone old enough to be responsible for 10 year olds. On a particularly hot July day, I rolled up to the pick up line and a young man approached my car.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said to me, proud of his politeness.

Now, his parents should be proud of how cordial he was. And there is a chance I looked slightly haggard after a day of meetings. When Little Mister came out and jumped into the car, the counselor shut the backseat door and leaned in my open passenger window to give me a wave and a little “Have a nice day, ma’am!” before I zipped up my window and peeled out of the parking lot.

I had been ma’amed not once, but TWO times. In the span of 5 minutes!

What was happening? After that horrific episode at camp pick up, I started hearing it everywhere people were talking to me: the airport, restaurants, delivery people! I was being ma’amed left and right.

It seemed I had transitioned to ma’am territory, and there was no going back.

Age, getting old

Feet don’t fail me now.

littleshoeprincess

I could easily fill 30 days of blogging with posts about getting older – every day focusing on a new ailment. (But really – who wants to read that?)

Over the summer months, the side of my right foot started to hurt. There’s a bone there (go ahead, find it on your foot) that was sensitive and painful. I was wearing lots of flip flops and pool slides, so perhaps that was the cause? When I consulted Dr. Google, it said I’d likely have to amputate my foot. And after 3 months of hobbling around in excruciating pain, I decided to get a second opinion with an actual foot doctor.

One of the many jobs I had while in high school was working in a foot doctor’s office. My job consisted of me standing at a counter for hours punching holes in pieces of paper, adding them to the patient charts, and then putting all the charts back alphabetically. This was the early 90s, so there were no iPhones/spotify/airpods/audiobooks to be had. I would have had to bring in my (rather large) Discman (!!) and wired foam headphones if I wanted to listen to music. If I had head phones on, I’d miss the juicy office gossip that swirled all around me. And, I wouldn’t be able to hear the misogynistic doctor who owned the practice walk into the area where we were all working, clear the phlegm from his throat while openly scratching his man parts through his thin scrubs yelling out patient names so I could fetch the charts for him. Did I mention how glamorous this job was?

While the doctor was an asshole who I would never let touch my feet (or any other part of my body) there was a sweet, young female foot doctor who also saw patients, Dr Wong. I have no idea how she put up with him, but she was quiet and professional and I liked her very much. Over the last 25 years when I did need a foot doctor, I did some sleuthing and found Dr Wong! She has her own practice in Cheshire and was always so gracious when I would go in.

I was four month deep in my foot pain, and it was bad enough that I had to go see my old friend Dr Wong.

I made an appointment and after having to cancel it twice due to work travel, I finally made it there in October. Dr Wong was thrilled to see me (her memory is unbelievable, she told me stories about myself I had zero recollection of).

She inspected my foot and listened to my woes and declared that I have tendonitis because my foot bones are off (?) and I’m overcompensating for something and pulling on the tendon on the outside of my leg. (This detail is about the extent of what I take away from a doctor: vague diagnosis and unclear cause). I left the appointment with a taped up foot (“Don’t get it wet – shower with a bag on your foot” Dr. Wong advised) and the insole of my sneaker doctored up with arch support.

Spoiler alert: that didn’t fix me. I went back three weeks later, and that’s when she really gave it me straight.

“Both of your feet are problematic,” she told me. “Your right foot the bones on the bottom are uneven and it’s pulling on your tendon. On your left foot, your foot leans in.”

“So what you’re saying is,” I say to her, “is that I’m falling apart? I’m old and my body is breaking down?”

“Not your whole body!” Dr. Wong exclaimed. “Just from your ankles down. The rest of you looks good – and you have great hair!”

As flattering as the hair compliment was, Dr. Wong went on to explain that I needed additional support in order to walk properly and pain free. She picked up my New Balance sneaker and folded it in half. “See this?” she said. “No support!”

“But those are actual walking/running shoes!” I exclaimed.

“This is just a sock with sole!” she said shaking my sneaker at me. True story: I love my New Balance sneakers so much – and they are so comfortable – that I have purchased the same sneakers the last 3 times I needed a new pair.

“You need shoes with more support!” Dr. Wong said, pulling up ugly, geriatric sneakers on Amazon. “Like these!” she said.

The sneakers she was showing me were pairs that my grandmothers (rest their soles) would not be caught dead in.

“And you need inserts!” she exclaimed, typing furiously into her browser.

With each declaration, her diagnosis and suggested plan of action got worse and worse. I sent this text message to Mr. KK:

It just kept getting worse and worse. Old age was now affecting my favorite feature: my feet!

I tried to explain to her that I wore a lot of fashion sneakers and other shoes (read: Rothy’s) that would not fit these bulky orthotics. But she had a solve for that too! Half orthotics that are perfect for “going out” shoes.

“Try these inserts in your shoes,” Dr. Wong instructed me. “And if those don’t work, we will try the heel lifts.”

If my foot didn’t hurt so much on a regular basis, I may have ignored her. But I was literally in pain 24/7, and limping around like an invalid. I already walked like I was 95 years old, so why not wear shoes like a 95 year old?

That afternoon, I ordered the old lady sneakers, and the insoles. I drew the line at heel lifts, because I was just not ready for that commitment yet. Today, everything arrived in the mail – stay tuned.

Age, getting old

This is What Middle Age Looks Like

littleshoeprincess

Middle Age. Grown Up. #Adulting. Whatever you call it, I’m in it.

You know that internet meme that goes around every so often that says something like, “I still think 1979 was 30 years ago”? That is me. Because how can 1979 be 40 something years ago when I’m still 29? (right?)

And I’m not only middle aged, I’m an “old mom” with a young kid. I easily have 5-10 years on other parents who have kids Little Mister’s age. We’re so old that we have friends who are sending their kids to college while we’re watching swim lessons. So not only do I feel old, I literally am old.

Middle age is a weird time. Part of me is all like, “Sure, I’ll have another martini!” while at the same time I’m thinking, “Man, I wish I was home in pajamas on the couch.”

I do believe you reach a certain age, and you become comfortable in your skin. You have confidence in who you’ve become and you embrace it. You don’t have time for bullshit, or for people who suck the life out of you.

In fact, your whole outlook on what is important and how you want to spend your time changes. For me, the biggest shift was in how I was spending my time.

On drinking:
Young Me: Pre-gaming started at 7pm, goes out at 9pm, still drinking at midnight.
Old Me: Prime party hours are now from 2pm-6pm, then water until bedtime.

Party animal:
Young Me: Would stay out late, sleep for 4 hours, be up at 7am. Rallied and went out again that night.
Old Me: Would have one drink past 9am, sleep for 3 hours, then up for an hour, then sleep for an hour, then be up at 5am for the day. Hung over for 2 days.

Working out:
Young Me: High-impact aerobics, pops right off the ground.
Old Me: Low impact yoga, does the “hand on the knee for balance” to stand up.

Saturday afternoon:
Young Me: Excited to do nothing all day.
Old Me: Excited to pick up the CSA and do weekly meal planning.

“How was your weekend?”:
Young Me: “GREAT! I met up with friends, tried a new brunch spot, binged Gilmore Girls.”
Old Me: “Productive. I did four loads of laundry, we cleaned out the basement, and I made a pot of soup for the week.”

When it’s 45 degrees out:
Young Me: “Do you think we need to wear a coat out?”
Old Me: “Are you crazy? It’s too cold to go out.”

Grocery shopping:
Young Me: No list, grabs just what I need for the next 2 days.
Old Me: List organized by the layout of the store, digital coupons clipped, reusable bags in tow.

One perk of Middle Age is that you’ve been there and you’ve likely done it all, and now you can focus on doing what you actually enjoy doing. I like this version of Old Me. I could do with less back pain, but other than that, I’m here for what comes next.

P.S. AARP, please stop sending me emails. I do not yet qualify for your services! Don’t rush me!

Age, getting old

The Evolution of Scoring Concert Tickets

littleshoeprincess

The scene:
Boston apartment, 1999
9:58am, 2 minutes until Dave Matthews Band Tickets for Foxboro Stadium go on sale

Four women are armed with phones, ready for the clock strike to 10am.

“I’ve got Boston!” one yells.

“I’m calling New Hampshire!” says another.

“I have Rhode Island covered!”

“I’ll be Massachusetts back up!”

3…2…1….DIAL!

We all spring into action.

I’m on my cell phone – not a smart phone, mind you, just a plain old cell phone that could only make calls – dialing Ticketmaster in Massachusetts. Busy, busy, busy.

One of my roommates is on the land line, clicking ON, then redial, the OFF, then ON again. Repeat. New Hampshire is busy tone after busy tone.

Two more roommates – both on cell phones – calling Rhode Island and Massachusetts, both striking out.

And then…”It’s ringing!” We all hold our breath and gather around the phone.

Then, finally, a human: “Ticketmaster.” We all squeal with joy and look at the printed seating chart. Honestly, we’d take what we could get. “How many tickets?”

And so began the back and forth of sections and what was available.

And this, my millennium friends, is how we used to get concert tickets.

Fast forward to 2022
Taylor Swift concert tickets go on sale

I am probably the only female on the planet who was not trying to get Taylor Swift tickets yesterday – and then, again – today (slight exaggeration, but not by much). I have many coworkers who were waiting in virtual queues who told me, “If I hang up quickly it’s because I got in!” (Nobody hung up quickly).

“There are 6,000 people ahead of me in line!” and “I have been waiting on the computer for hours!”

And this, my friends, is unfathomable to me. I love a good concert as much as the next person, but the lengths people are going, and the insanity that is ensuing, is too much for me.

When Taylor Swift announced her tour, there was a fleeting moment when I thought, “I bet she’d be such a great concert to see.” And then I saw the rules on how to get tickets and I’m all like, “Yeah…nope.”

There is no one – not one musical artist, living or dead – that I would stay online for 10+ hours to get tickets to. Not to mention the COST of the tickets…that is just not something I could spend that much money on. I’d rather go on vacation!

Today’s news shared the absurd cost of tickets on resale sites such as Stubhub, here tickets are priced over $30,000.

Let me say that again: $30,000. For a concert ticket.

The worst part is, with how hard it is to get tickets and how expensive those tickets are, there are a lot of very sad girls out in the world.

The “old days” of getting concert tickets seems ridiculous now (can you imagine working at Ticketmaster and having to work the day super popular tickets went on sale? And you manually answered the phone? And had to talk to people about which tickets they wanted? that sounds like a HORRIBLE job!). But there was something about the thrill of the chase – all of us on different phones, manually dialing phone numbers in multiple states. There was no pre-sale or special clubs. Everyone was on equal footing, and it all came down to how fast your fingers worked with the dialing of a phone. And even when you got through and stopped hearing that annoying busy tone in your ear, you were put in a queue to wait for an operator.

Yes, you read that correctly. Wait. for. an. operator.

A real live person would tell you what tickets/sections/rows/seats were available.

And then our tickets would come to us in the mail!

We worked so hard as a team to get concert tickets that when we finally “got through” and spoke with someone, we were ecstatic!

Ah, the good old days!

Age, getting old, Life, NaBloPoMo

You’re Only As Old As You Feel…Until They Tell You Otherwise.

littleshoeprincess

They say age is just a number.

But then they also tell you – in a variety of ways – that no matter how young you feel, you are, in fact, OLD.

I remember the first time I was Ma’amed. I was awkwardly ordering at a Starbucks with their exclusive sizing language when the extremely young barista said, “Here’s your change, Ma’am.” The word rang in my ears. I silently repeated the word in different voices and tones in my head. I was far to young to be a Ma’am…wasn’t I?

Oh, but society is tricky! Just when you’re feeling good and young and NOT your age, whammo! It’s time for a medical test that “people your age” start to have. Or, if you’re a woman and you’re pregnant at age 35 or later, you are considered of “Advance Maternal Age” and quickly shuffled off to a “special” office with “expert” doctors and “personalized” care. You’re suddenly in a decade that is being called “[YOUR AGE] is the new [INSERT YOUNGER DECADE HERE]”.

Personally, while I know that time is passing, I still have a misconceived notion of how long ago things happened. This is me exactly:

I can’t be the only one who is time-challenged.

I have a headshot that I use that Mr. KK took of me over a decade ago that I still unabashedly use because 1. I love this photo of me and 2. In some weird way, I still think I look like this. (Sad, I know.) I feel like almost no time has passed, when in reality, a dozen years have gone by and our lives have changed so much (we had a kid, which contributed to me no longer looking as young and relaxed as I do in that photo), so perhaps I hang onto that photo because I wish I STILL looked like that. I also still have the blue scarf.

Interestingly, while my mind may still feel young(ish), my body hasn’t gotten the message because GOOD LORD why do so many things hurt? And when one thing starts to feel better (my back), something else starts to hurt (my shoulder). Speaking of shoulders, a few years back I was having so much shoulder pain I went to see a massage therapist who basically said, “You have frozen shoulder. It happens to women around your age.” Hmph!

Physical aging aside (eye sight, crawling out of bed every morning, constant nerve pain), I am aging out of “cool” social platforms. Case in point: TikTok. I just…can’t. I mean, I do, a bit, for my job. But personally, no thank you. I already have ZERO time in my life, and I imagine a constant stream of videos that never, ever stop would be such a time suck out of my life, that I would open TikTok on Tuesday, and before I knew it, it was Thursday afternoon and I haven’t slept or eaten, and Little Mister has lost 2 teeth.

I suppose in a few years, Little Mister will be my tie to all things social and cool. He’ll want to be on the latest social platform that is yet to be invented by some future 17 year old billionaire. I’ll have all the knowledge of cool parent phone spyware and be not only up on what he’s doing, but still somewhat cool. When we have dance parties now in our kitchen – and Little Mister asks me to “Please don’t sing” and “Do you have to dance like that?”, I like to tell him how much I’m looking forward to chaperoning his school dances and busting out with some signature moves while he and his friends look on. Fun fact: I will absolutely do this.

I will continue to use my out-of-date headshot (maybe even for my obituary?), and remain young mentally. Fashionably, I will age; I will wear what’s comfortable, even if everyone is hating on skinny jeans and I still have a pair I feel halfway decent in.

And I will still let myself think that 1980 was twenty years ago, and that me and millennials are “around the same age” because, well, why not?

Boomers, Generations, getting old, Life, NaBloPoMo

How the Boomers are Different from Gens X, Y, Z

littleshoeprincess

If this pandemic has showed me anything, it’s the generational gap between younger generations and the Boomers.

First off, raise your hand if at the beginning of the pandemic you had trouble keeping your parents home. I thought I was going to have to put homing devices on everyone in my life over 70. I found myself saying things like, “How imperative is it that you have hot dog buns right now?” Finally, and thankfully, it clicked. And all of my Boomers finally took my (not so subtle) hints and stayed under house arrest home.

Second, TV coverage. My parents and in laws had their TVs on 24/7 following COVID coverage. The actual television is on. And sometimes, multiple TVs are on in different rooms, all on the same station. CNN has viewers for life with that crew.

But the dedication to physically watching news on television isn’t the only difference between me and the “older generation”. In fact, last year I wrote this post about how our generations do things differently.

But the differences don’t end there!

A few months ago, Mr. KK and I were at his parents house. His mother was showing us things she found after cleaning out an armoire, when she held up a large bag of metal.

“Look at all these belt buckles I found!” she said.

And there, in the bag, must’ve been about 20 belt buckles of varying shapes and sizes. Yes, I said belt buckles. Personally, I don’t own a belt (short, pear-shaped women should never wear a belt!). Mr. KK own two belts (one black and one brown). But the buckles are attached to the belt. There’s no switching up the buckle depending on his mood (“I’m feeling feisty, let’s bust out the turquoise studded silver!”).

Epsom salt. I recently was reading a book about a twenty-something who needed an epsom salt bath to help blisters that she had on her feet. (This book was obviously a book about millennials written by someone much, much older). Honestly, until I looked it up just now, I had no idea what epsom salt was even used for (it has 20 surprising uses! Who knew it could help with constipation and acne!). I do, however, distinctly remember it being in our linen closet growing up.

Over the summer – in an effort to complete at least ONE project during all of our time home together – Mr. KK needed to measure something. “I wish we had a yardstick,” he said, “that would be perfect right now.” There are three types of people who likely own a yardstick: mothers over 70, their mothers, and seamstresses. And I am none of the above. My mother had (has?) a yardstick. It was kept in the hallway closet, standing up in the corner (where and how else do you store something that’s 3 feet long?). I think we used it to measure how much snow we got during one of the blizzards.

The ye old address book. If you’re under 20, you likely don’t even know what an address book is. If you’re Gen X, you likely had one in your childhood for all those “pen pals” you might have corresponded with from summer vacations or camp. This is also the reason why you might still have stamps, because you’ve physically mailed a piece of parcel in your lifetime. Boomers live and die by the address book. Not only does it hold addresses and phone numbers (to LAND LINES), it usually is adorned with a variety of paper clips and scrap pieces of paper, the likes of which are not limited to: business cards for painters, exterminators or carpenters; reminder cards for doctor appointments; and a funny comic ripped from the newspaper.

Boomers have check books and they know how (and still do!) use them. I am the first person to tell you that I have a checkbook. I remember the day I got it with my Big Girl checking account. However, just because I HAVE a check book, doesn’t mean I USE a check book. I have had the same set of checks for years and years and years (and probably will until I die, frozen in time on the same check number from 2005 when I was issued checks with my new married name! If you owe me money and you want to pay me by check, just hold onto it…until you can pay me electronically.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel the generational gap between me (Gen X) and millennials. And I’m sure they could name a million things that I do – or own – that is completely foreign to them. Things such as: I enjoy flipping through magazines (PRINTED magazines), I always have a book of stamps, and I handwrite my to do list every day (so that I can physically cross things off!).

And I’m comfortable with my Gen X-ness. I’m sure Gen Z has never felt the little thrill of opening the mailbox and seeing the latest issue of their favorite glossy magazine just sitting there, begging for a creased spine and leisurely read. And honestly, I feel bad for them.

Boston, getting old, NaBloPoMo, Restaurants

I’m too old to stand in line at a bar.

littleshoeprincess

Once a year, my friend J and I arrange a girls’ weekend in Boston where we spend the weekend eating, drinking, catching up and shopping.

The weather Gods were in our favor this year, as we had gorgeous fall weather, low 50’s and sunny – perfect poncho weather.

Lunch was at Coppa Boston, where we sipped wine and enjoyed a gorgeous charcuterie platter of fennel salami, duck prosciutto and spicy soppressata, paired with nutty pecorino, creamy robiola and and sola cheeses; and meatballs and a celery caesar salad that was so crunchy and fresh, I have to try and recreate this dish at home.

IMG_7580-1

When J and I lived in Boston (15 years ago!) we both lived in South Boston (Southie, to those in the know). J lived on the nicely gentrified East Side, right on K Street near the famous L Street Tavern where Matt Damon and the Good Will Hunting gang used to hang out. I lived on the gritty west side off of West 5th Street, next to the park where Matt, Ben and others fought those kids on the basketball court.

Even though we lived on different sides of town, we both left before Southie became the trendy, up-and-coming area teeming with hipsters and millennials that it is today. So in an effort to relive our time living in the greatest city of all time, we decided to go to dinner in our old neighborhood.

“Wait until you see how Southie had changed,” I told her. “You won’t even recognize it.”

As our Uber driver, Wellington – whom we fondly referred to as Beef Wellington – took a left onto Albany Street, we both pressed our noses to the glass. What used to be dilapidated buildings and abandoned doorways, was now trendy gastro pubs, fromageries, and wine shops.

Whitey Bulger’s old haunt Triple O’s Lounge was now a rustic Italian cafe. Hole in the wall pizza joints were now chic taverns. And the old Mexican haunt with tabletops sticky from spilled margaritas was now a loud and hip sushi restaurant – and our destination for dinner.

Maybe it was eating at a restaurant where we the scene matched the food, or the hoards of youth on the sidewalks, but after dinner these two now-suburban moms were not ready to call it a night.

“Let’s go back to Broadway and go for a drink!” we thought who we were. And then we saw the lines at the bars. And then we realized who were weren’t.

We weren’t waiting in a line at a bar. Because we are OLD.

Both bars had lines so long, that it was doubtful that the kids – and they did look like kids – would ever see the inside of the place before dawn. And, not to go all MOM on the young ladies, but it was under 40 degrees, and the girls wore halter tops and mini skirts and no coats!

Don’t get me wrong, I still wait in lines. I’m just selective about the types of lines I’ll wait in.

I’ll wait in line to get into my favorite pizza place.

I’ll wait in line to get the latest beer released at a brewery.

But I won’t wait in line to get into a bar and pay inflated prices for cocktails and scream to be heard.

When we saw those lines, we looked at each other and a look passed between us, and in that brief moment we silently said to each other, “We have pajamas waiting for us in a hotel, with no spouses or kids and an entire bed to ourselves where we can lie down and watch HGTV uninterrupted until we fall asleep. So let’s leave these kids standing in line and high tail it back to our room.”

So we abandoned the line, hopped in an Uber and were in our jammies faster than you could say “millennial”.

To the young ones out there, waiting in lines at bars, enjoy it while you can.

And, for the love of God, WEAR A COAT!