It was Liz’s birthday yesterday. To celebrate, we went out for a few drinks at Beerhouse – a local favourite on Long Street.
At one point during the night, a guy sat down next to me and attempted some pick-up lines of epic awfulness. We established that he was 23. And that I was not.
Him: So… are you going out tonight?
Me: What are you talking about? I am out.
Him: *Genuinely confused*
And that is the difference between 23 and (let’s face it – basically) 29.
The more I spoke to him (and marvelled at his persistence in the face of open laughter and incredulity of myself and my friends – poor guy), the more I felt the massive distance between his age and mine.
He was studying. Investment banking or something. Yeah, it was going really well, man. No he wasn’t really sure if that was what he, like, really wanted to do with his life. But, you know, did I come here often?
He asked what I did. I told him that Liz and I owned our own business. We built websites, handled content marketing and social media workshops, etc.
He looked vaguely impressed, and I thought – man, we’ve come a long way, Liz and I. From the days just after varsity when we were knocking on doors in Ireland, failing spectacularly to get people to sign up for direct debit orders for charities, and dreaming of the day when we might have a job inside. With a desk and a chair – the luxury!
And here we are, running our own business, working with amazing clients, loving what we do and celebrating birthdays with a few quiet drinks at the local pub.
Don’t get me wrong – 23 was fun. Ridiculously so. But I wouldn’t trade lives with 23 year old me. I’ve heard enough bad pick-up lines to last safely into the next decade.