Old Fart

There was a punk rock club in Memphis called The Antenna. It closed 14 years ago, just after I graduated from high school. I wouldn't say I frequented the place, but I saw a few shows there, had several friends who were there quite often. It's a landmark spot and was possibly the longest-running punk club in America, or some superlative like that. Some bands that played there went on to make a significant musical mark, like REM. It is still a club, with a different name, still showcasing local bands. They had an Antenna Reunion last weekend. I wanted to go, mostly to see some old friends and hear some good rock/punk sound. That evening, though, I slowly realized that I am now too uncool to go to the Antenna. Too uncool and too old. Here were my signs:
1. I was wearing a khaki skirt. This is not the attire of a rock chick and CERTAINLY not a punk kid. I was never a punk kid, but at least I had something slightly alternative to wear. Now I do not.
2. My husband--and potential date for the Reunion--was wearing a yellow knit shirt. He spilled salsa on it during dinner with our 3 children. He had to stop at the store and pick up a new shirt. Even with the cool dark gray shirt, he was still wearing (wait for it) plaid shorts. Ummm, no.
3. Did I mention the 3 kids? I'm not a completely un-hip mom--my kids are exposed to all kinds of music. My not-quite-two-year-old can identify the band members of U2 on sight. But, alas, I am not a punk rocker mom. The childcare options were limited that night, and none panned out. So I couldn't join the punk scene because I couldn't get a babysitter.
4. I was exhausted. See #3. Not to mention that I worked that day. All day. All week, in fact, like a productive adult. We went to a baseball game and stayed for the fireworks, through which 2 of the 3 kids cried. After hauling their dead-weight sleeping bodies to the mini-van, I couldn't fathom going back out.
5. Mini-van. My other car is a Civic Hybrid, and that might have passed for semi-cool, but I was driving the Odyssey.

Several people I know--some of whom have kids and all of whom have real jobs, too--are obviously less exhausted, better-dressed and cooler than I am. But, alas, I was asleep by 11:30, with visions of The Dead Milkmen dancing in my head. And also bits of playdough stuck in my hair.