Patti and I went to a concert last night, only to discover that it was sold out. Two dozen high-schoolers loitered outside so they could smoke one last clove cigarette before calling their moms. One girl wore a pillowcase with jeans and she stared at us like we didn't fit in.

In the car Patti said, “Those kids made me feel old and unfashionable because I'm dressed like a normal person who has to get up for work in the morning.”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I realized my youth was gone when I had a conversation about how my lawn really needed that rain.”

I used to be like those kids, concerned about looking cool because I thought it gave me purpose. I've happily let go of that need for social validation. The biggest problem that I face now is going to a friend's house for dinner and finding out that he's serving stuffed bell peppers. Or that he made something I typically enjoy eating, but he made it all weird and shit, like It's salsa, but I added pineapple and cream cheese!

“Man, I can't wait to be old,” Patti said, “You can complain about anything and people appease you just to shut you up.”

“We're already there,” I replied. “What do you want to do now?”