I was in Nordstrom Rack last night and I found a great pair of GBX shoes for $40. They were big chunky things, patent leather with a brushed stainless steel buckle. Two years ago, I would have been all over them like a donkey on a waffle. Last night, I tried them on and thought, “OK, these are just obnoxious.”
This is when I realized I’m getting old.
It started to hit me this weekend in Kalamazoo. That, and a wicked hangover also hit me; 12 hours of straight drinking with a switch from beer to wine will do that to you, but I digress.
The party for the end of Bilbo’s Underground was everything I expected it to be – fun, drunken, and anticlimactic. It’s been two years since I’ve even visited Kalamazoo, and I think I’d said goodbye to Bilbo’s a long time ago. But we went, drank many pictures of Oberon, made it back to a friend’s house, drank wine, passed out, and went to a breakfast that I sipped coffee through and fought the urge to throw up. It was fun, but I’m getting too old for this.
I don’t know if I expected some sore of epiphany visiting the old hangout, but I didn’t get it. There was a kiss with my wife in the bar for old time’s sake, and a wicked hangover. Bilbo is dead. Long live Bilbo.