] Photo: Grandma Club
When: Friday, 8:08pm
I blindly took a seat at the bar while a friend’s band set up and happened to sit next to the only other woman by herself who looked mature. She was probably 37 because whenever I think someone is my age they turn out to be 37. “I never go out,” she told me, having made the trek from Bed-Stuy. She and her boyfriend, who wasn’t there, don’t really drink. The friend she was waiting for was lost on her way from the East Village and didn’t arrive until after the music started. It was loud; they moved to the back. The friend looked more like 47, though it may have been the fault of her short, sensible haircut that signaled mom hair, but mom hair from the ‘80s.
I wondered if I had mom hair, decided I might, then ordered another Sixpoint.
Being oblivious to your looks also made me think of a Middle Ages sub-genre: grandmas at the club. I’ve not experienced this insult (maybe that’s the difference between Atlanta and Brooklyn) though when I saw The Fresh & Onlys at Glasslands last month I made a point of surveying the scene, and not only were there definitely not any women over 40, there were barely any women not in the company of men (most who just use shows as an excuse to rub their dates’ backs sensually in public).
Age appropriate? Sort of. I mean, no one’s going to call you a grandma.