“Haven’t pulled an all-nighter in years,” said my Facebook post. “My body reacted extremely poorly. Apparently I am not 21 anymore.”

“Sadly, none of us are,” my friend commiserated. “Boooo!” Boooo, indeed.

And yet.

Every year, my husband and I spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s at his parents’ condo in Fort Lauderdale; and every year, the beach near the condo is overrun with college swim/dive teams who are in town for training camps at the same time. Every year, I ogle the trim, toned young whippersnappers—both guys and girls, although, okay, yes, definitely more the guys—and I listen to snatches of their conversations about classes and finals and parties and I get sooooooo nostalgic for college. I remember that feeling of just infinite possibility, where everything good was still to come, and the mystery of it wasn’t threatening at all because it never entered my mind that whatever was coming might potentially be kind of disappointing. All I had to do was go to class, do my schoolwork, and hang out with my best friends every single freaking night of the week.

And then, inevitably, just as I’m lying there on the sand, working up a really good buzz of nostalgia, some dudes park themselves within earshot of us and start talking. And then I remember.

Two years ago, it was a guy telling his buddy about another friend who was so desperate to get laid, he’d banged this really gross chick, but none of them were sure it counted cause he was wasted and his dick was only in for a minute. So, you know. Totally didn’t count. This year, it was something a little less unforgettably revolting, but whatever it was, I remember rolling my eyes so hard they bounced. And then I looked over at my kind, compassionate and yet also remarkably good-looking 36-year-old husband and I thought, “aaaaahhh, yes. My thirties. Thank the good Lord for my thirties.” So be grateful for them. And if you’re not here yet? Trust me—it’s good.

 

Thanks wikimedia for the photo!