I spent the summer between high school and college hanging out with a group of six friends with whom I’d grown close during the three months before graduation. We used to hang out at my friend Kathy’s house. Her parents had converted the garage of their modest, mid-century home into a large bedroom and living room for Kathy, and the space included its own private entryway from the outside, making it the perfect, grownup-feeling place to hang out (and, of course, her parents were usually inside, so it wasn’t likely we’d get into too much trouble as a result). We spent many weeknights just sitting around, eating pizzas and dreaming about our futures at the various universities to which we were headed in the coming fall. And more often than not, we wondered if this was the beginning of the end of our youth.
“Well, I don’t particularly care, personally,” sniffed Kathy, one particular evening. “I can’t wait to be an old, old woman.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, my mouth full of pizza.
“Because when you’re an old woman, you can get away with murder,” she said, quite seriously. “You can curse like a sailor, you can pinch the asses of random cute guys, and no one says a word. They just chalk it up to your being old and crazy, and all the while you’re amusing yourself, having a great time and totally getting away with it all. I can’t wait to have that kind of freedom.”
The six of us burst out laughing, agreeing that the freedom of an old woman, as defined by Kathy, was definitely worth living. But I remember that night wondering: when exactly is the age when you can start pinching asses and cursing like a sailor and not have to account for your behavior? Was it at seventy-five? Eighty-five? And more importantly, until you reached that age when you were allowed to express that freedom, were you required to toe the line and behave As Society Expected You to Behave, no questions asked, thank you very much?
Fast-forward twenty-five years, and I’ve come to believe that youthfulness is all about spending your entire life trying new things, testing the boundaries of what it means to be authentic and true to yourself and maybe, just maybe, having a little fun along the way. I believe that perhaps the reason that the old woman my friend envisioned gets away with it is because she was constantly exploring, spending her time looking for ways to amuse herself, so that it just was never a shock at her advanced age when she did something out of the norm.
As for me, I’ve made it a goal to constantly look for ways to have fun, to play, and to encourage the people around me to do the same. It can’t hurt.
At the very least, I’ll learn at what age I can pinch the asses of random cute guys and get away it. And I’ll be sure to pass that information along when I do.