Sep 18, 2017 3 min read

I have discovered a sad truth about myself: I have gotten old. Sometime in the years since I left college, the transformation happened where I no longer understand college-aged kids. Maybe I never did.

I had my oldest daughter the same month I finished my freshman finals, and from there on out I worked two and three jobs while maintaining my full courseload of classes.

I made few friends on campus because I could never go to anything after school. I attended few events that weren’t mandatory because child care was hard to come by. And I never lived on campus because bringing a child to live in the dorms was frowned upon more than bringing a pet.

Still, I thought I had understood the “college experience.”

I was, therefore, excited to return to my alma mater this past weekend for a night of theater with my sister. It was only my second time back to campus since graduation in 2001. We were attending an improvisational set of skits created by the theater department in the 24 hours prior to going onstage. I was excited.

The seating was on stage to create a more intimate experience. We settled in and prepared to be wowed. The night opened with an explanation of what was to come. Students had been locked in overnight for the express purpose of being creative and writing on a strict deadline. Once the scenes were written, they were cast, acted, and directed in anticipation of our viewing pleasure.

The audience was warned there were adult themes in some of the skits, and we were permitted to leave if we became uncomfortable at any point. When I looked around to gauge the reaction to that statement, I saw my sister and I were the only ones there who could truly be classified as adults. Everyone else, though they must have been at least 18, looked like they were 12. (See what I mean about being old? That is an old lady thing to say!)

Other old lady things I thought about the production include: There were too many gratuitous sexual innuendos and references, a light sprinkling of swearing would have gone further to make their point than the frequency upon which they decided, and man, was I ever that young?

Maybe. Maybe I look back upon my life through glasses tinted by an untrustworthy memory. Perhaps all adults remember themselves being more mature than they were. Even my 19-year old thinks she was never as dorky as my 12-year old son. But maybe my experience was far enough removed from a more traditional one that I missed it altogether.

Despite my discomfort, I did rather enjoy the final scene, in which there was an extramarital affair and someone coming out to their parents as “straight.” It was witty and fanciful and funny. I would have liked for it to have been more fully developed into a longer play, in truth.

When it was over, my sister and I looked at one another and lamented that, as mothers, wives and pushing 40 years old, we may have chosen the wrong production to see. Perhaps we should have picked the viewing of “Macbeth,” or a symphony or an art show or something.

You know, something more our speed as old ladies.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.