I was at a new years party the other night, hosted by the parents of one of my closest friends from college—Jodie. She and I were the youngest people there, by ten years… and the average age was at least mid-50s.
I have never had so much fun before in my life.
Jodie’s parents are theater producers in New York City, so all of the guests are very involved in the theater scene, in all aspects. The woman who had been playing Mrs. Potts in Beauty and the Beast before it closed was there, as well as the guy who plays the grandfather in the Cheerios commercial with the joke about “studying for a test.”
Although the night is a little fuzzy as a result of the six-plus glasses of champagne, I’m pretty sure that I can give a fairly accurate account of the evening. It started at dinner, where I spent the time trading obscure facts with a sixty-five year old ex-professor, and actually stumped him on at least one. Then we got back to Jodie’s apartment, where we were possibly the most normal we’ve ever been, trying to figure out what in the nine hells to wear.
The party started with champagne and gossip about theater people, some of whom I’d heard of and some of whom I just smiled and nodded about. I learned that Nathan Lane is a total douchebag in person. I met an absolutely adorable fifty-something gay man who told me that I had divine eyes that could melt people. I discovered that the whipped cream on the strawberries had port in it. I played with a very spiffy champagne opener that you just twist to pop off the cork. All in all, I was quite tipsy and having a blast talking with everyone about the minutiae of the most obscure plays and performances.
Midnight came and went, with much toasting and kisses all around.
And then… the games started. The first one was something like charades, but with props, and my team positively kicked ass—apparently, lots of champagne makes me more creative and perceptive, as I was able to understand really vague motions as symbolic of “tie-dye” and “chair lift” when they really looked like “twisting your hands around and making frustrated noises.” This seems to be a skill that few adults have, and so I was heralded as some kind of word-game genius.
Not that I’m complaining.
All I want to know is this: why the fuck is it that when I find people who like me, and with whom who I can have an intelligent conversation about something I’m really into, they’re at least ten years older than me, and usually at least twenty? Sure, I look a few years older than I really am—people tend to guess early twenties—but that’s not enough of a reason for me to consistently gravitate towards older people.
I always have—even when I was quite young, I couldn’t stand people my own age. I’d talk to babysitters, teachers, and adult friends instead of peers. I was a lot smarter than anyone else then, and no one could resist a child with pigtails and a lisp who could hold conversations on the level of a preteen in kindergarten.
I think it’s just that people my own age are total fucking retards—no matter what “my age” is, the average person might as well be a goddamn pigeon. It also might have something to do with the fact that I like being the center of attention (most likely due to being used to being the adorable precocious child), and when I’m significantly younger and contributing to the conversation, people pay more attention to me.
Whatever the reason is, I’m not going to stop doing it, especially because at this point most people my age are aware of the fact that I think they’ve got the intellect and common sense of a root vegetable, and as such don’t like me very much.