Out With the Old, In With the New

In 2005, Steve Jobs, co-founder and CEO of Apple Computer, gave the commencement address at Stanford University. Towards the end of his speech – the transcript of which I found on the internet – he spoke the following words: “…death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent; it clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now, the new is you. But someday, not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it's quite true.”

Please let me extend my own apologies for bringing to your attention such a morose topic. But it’s not Mr. Jobs’ focus on death that I want to discuss here; it’s his comment regarding the old being cast aside to make room for the new. Of all the points he was trying to make during his speech, this notion of being swept away, like crumbs off a table, stuck with me. Though his comment was purposeful in that it served to inspire (he followed by saying, “time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life”), I couldn’t help but feel thoroughly depressed. They were the kind of words that plague a person who is already dealing with the emotional turmoil of change, of leaving their youth behind. The kind of words that lie dormant and are suddenly recalled to the surface when something or someone reminds them of the passage of time. Indeed, a recent incident had me reflecting on Mr. Jobs’ sentiments.

It should be noted that I’m turning 30 in six months. This fact is hugely important in terms of understanding the experience I am about to recount. A few Saturday nights ago, five of us went to dinner at Houston’s in Boston. Afterwards, we decided to head out to a nearby bar. Nights like this were a rare treat; since turning 29, “girls night out” had ceased to be a regular weekend occurrence, replaced by quiet nights at home and trips to Blockbuster. On our walk through Fanueil Hall to the predetermined watering hole, faint noises – cackles and yelps – from afar, slowly began to grow louder. Before we knew it, six hot-to-trot girls were on our tails, overtaking our strides with their revelry and their howls of joy.

“Oh sorry, sweetie, it’s her 21st! Ooooowwwwww!!!” one of the frolickers shrieked, as she practically knocked me on my ass in her attempt to push past me. The girls, all dressed like Paris Hilton, wearing designer rags, carrying designer purses, strutting in four inch stilettos, paraded past us, inebriated and ready to stir up trouble. My friend and I looked at one another with knowing glances: Nine years ago, that was US. Oh my, how quickly time passes. I can barely wear kitten heels nowadays because my back and knees just won’t allow it. I have a glass of wine and I’m lit. I wake up the next day after a night of drinking and it literally takes me five days to recover.

As fate would have it, we ended up going to the same bar as the birthday squad. Upstairs, as we attempted to get a drink in the annoyingly noisy and cramped establishment, the monotonous techno thump pulsating through our bodies like coked up heartbeats, we once again crossed paths with the aforementioned gaggle of female collegians. This time, they were dancing and laughing and hopping about, limbs flailing in every direction, whipping their hair across their faces as they moved to the music. They pushed their way past us, straight to the front of the bar where they demanded drinks for their newly minted of-age gal pal. Shots, and plenty of them, were served up with such rapidity, I began to wonder if the birthday girl was perhaps a diabetic and ironically, the only substance that could keep her insulin level from crashing was six Kamikaze shots.

These were the new girls, and they were taking our places. Out with the old, in with the new crew, the new crop. Our thrones were being usurped right before our very eyes; it wasn’t our time anymore, it was theirs. Indeed, now was our time to think about having babies, solidifying our careers, starting families, buying homes. At that very moment, I could see everything with such depressing clarity. No matter how hard I have tried to hold on to my youth, it’s a ship that has already set sail, never to return again. Those days are gone; I can never have them back no matter what I do. And the sad truth hits me like a fucking lightning bolt – powerful and instantaneous. I look at the girls, wishing desperately I could time travel back to those days of wild abandon, lamenting for the good times and laughs that were now all but faint memories. And it stung. It stung deeply. I couldn’t whine or argue my way out of this one – the way I used to do when I was kid. Time stops for no woman, even for those who ask nicely. Now, I’m an adult, bogged down by responsibilities, steeped in proper behavior, plagued by having to make choices and decisions that can no longer be chalked up to experience. The fear of a bad hair day is replaced by the fear of divorce. Oh, to have it all back again, to do it all over!

Of course, when nostalgia of this sort washes over our hearts, it also seizes control of our brains, and it’s almost impossible to recall things correctly. What about all of the crappy times – the moments that I wanted to curl up into a ball and wish myself 30, the nights that I cried myself to sleep, the times spent with my head down a toilet because of margherita abuse, the endless hours of unhappiness and insecurity and anxiety and fear and disillusionment? You see, we romanticize that which we cannot have despite the bad memories, simply because we cannot have it. Pain has a short memory.

My life will never be the same as it was at 21. I’ll never get those next morning giggles back – you know, the ones between you and your friends the day after a wild and crazy night, in which you’ve danced on bar tops and made out with hot guys and played juvenile drinking games that consisted of chugging and naming as many words as you can to describe the male genitalia. But I’ll also never again be praying to the Porcelain God as a result of drinking my body weight in alcohol; I’ll never again be as uncertain as I once was about my career; I’ll never again be as insecure about my body; I’ll never again be as unsure about my needs; I’ll never again be as uncertain about the people who I want to let into my life. For these things I am grateful – grateful for being cleared away by the new.

I can’t say that I’ve conquered all my insecurities or fears, now that I’m turning 30, but I am that much closer to finding the answers, and the newbies are just beginning the battle.

© Neely Steinberg, a freelance writer living in Boston. She is an editor and contributing writer for www.nuts4chic.com - an online women's lifestyle magazine. This piece was previously published at her personal blog, Ordinary Gal Neely ~ go visit to read more from Neely!