The 1982 Syndrome

In the city by the bay, I’ve noticed many, many trends.

People love flip cup.
There is no ‘off night’ when it comes to the social scene.
Theme parties are the name of the game.

And, the most prevalent of the few, is 1982.

"Nineteen eighty-two?" you say. "What’s that?"

Let’s do the math. Let’s say that you’re a boy (a hot one, at that),
and you live in the city. Let’s also just say that you hit on me or
that, on the off-chance that you’re THAT cute and I’m THAT drunk, I hit
on you. Then, my friend, 1982 is very relavent.

It’s because it was when you were born.

Yes, my friends, my social debut onto the San Francisco social scene
clearly coincides with the onset of what I’m now coining "The 1982
Syndrome." In other words, every guy I meet is 23.

Now, a bit about these youthful lads – in their nubile exuberance,
they *ALL* assert that there’s very little difference between 23 and
28, which I, in my not-so-youthful exuberance, know is their futile
attempt to get me between the sheets (or at least pressed up against a
wall or making out at a club.) You see, I’ve BEEN 23. And to that matter, I’ve also been 24, 25, 26, and 27. At 23, they don’t know better. At 28, I DO.

I’m going to pretend it’s my new-found moisturizing regimen or
perhaps the fresh air of the city. But alas, I think it’s just mere
demographics – the social scene here spans many ages whereas in
Atlanta, it pretty much segregates according to decades. The 23
year-olds play with kids their own age at bars where college fake-id’s
are still the norm. The 26 and older crowd, otherwise known as "If
you’re not married by now you’d better give up, take up knitting and
get a cat", plays in their own sandbox with their own kind. The
young’uns, hypothesizing on what us elders would be discussing at cool
East Atlanta bars (besides hemmorhoids, viagra and cat litter) wouldn’t
imagine of hitting on one of OUR group; the same is held true
conversely. But here,  hallelujah, the plebians mingle with the
royalty, the young with the old – caste intermingling is the norm. And
– Bobbi Brown cosmetics or demographics aside – the true beauty of
being 28 is not just that we know better; it’s that we know better but
are wise enough to do it anyway.

2 thoughts on “The 1982 Syndrome

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