I was contemplating attending a kegger one afternoon. It was a warm Saturday in late October, around 4 PM, as I strolled through the campus center. Here and there, fraternity brothers were celebrating the end of Spring Fling weekend with kegs of beer set up outside their houses. I’ve always enjoyed the taste of keg beer; it has that unique flavor, reminiscent of the kind you’d find after it had been spilled on the floor and then siphoned back into the keg.
Groups of young men were gathered—athletes, nerds, and party enthusiasts. There were attractive guys in button-down shirts alongside even more appealing ones in tattered tees and open flannel shirts, which happen to be my weakness. So, naturally, the thought of stopping by for a cold drink and whatever might happen next crossed my mind.
But there was a slight obstacle: I could easily be mistaken for one of these boys’ mothers. Technically, I’m not, but it wouldn’t be far-fetched. I was a late bloomer, after all, and I was still a virgin when most of these guys were conceived. Still, I’m old enough to have had a child by now.
Later, while chatting with a friend, she too got caught up in what I like to call the “mother-son differential.” We pondered why men seem unfazed by the same biological implications. Perhaps it’s because men don’t physically give birth to the young women at the bar who could be their daughters. But for us women, the boys we find appealing could have emerged from the very place we’re considering letting them go back to. I can see why that might give us pause.
Ironically, that wasn’t what ultimately held me back. In that moment, I didn’t feel like anyone’s mother; rather, I wanted to share a beer with a handsome guy. (For the record, I am the mother of two, but let’s pretend I’m not, or that I’ve sent them off to a peaceful farm to live their rambunctious lives.) The real concern was this: I wasn’t entirely sure I could pull off the look of a college student.
I’m not revealing my actual age, as I haven’t given up on the idea of returning to campus for a future Homecoming. Let’s just say, I have eye crinkles, dark circles under my eyes that even the best concealer can’t hide, and the onset of brow furrows. The skin under my chin isn’t what it once was, either. On the bright side, I was dressed appropriately—jeans, a cool untucked shirt, leather jacket, and a backpack. My hair was still vibrant thanks to Clairol, and my family has a reputation for looking younger than we are. Was it a toss-up? I like to think so.
To clarify, I wasn’t aimlessly wandering the campus. I was there to participate in a panel about nonfiction writing, but I arrived early and decided to take a walk. So sue me.
Now that I think about it, I might need to reconsider my “free pass.” Currently, it’s for Eddie Vedder or maybe Clive Owen. I go back and forth. If either of them were to invite me back to their hotel room, I might, according to a previous agreement with my spouse, accept, and my marriage would probably benefit from it. Who wouldn’t want to brag about having been with someone who has been with Eddie Vedder or Clive Owen? However, now I’m starting to think my free pass should be a fraternity boy in a flannel shirt at 5:30 PM on Homecoming, lounging on an unmade futon with Warren Zevon playing in the background and a sweat band on the doorknob warning his roommate to keep out. That sounds much more reasonable than a celebrity free pass since there are colleges everywhere.
Back to my kegger epiphany. I realized something significant that day: I understood why some men pursue significantly younger partners. It’s not that these young women make them feel youthful; they already feel that way. They’ve been chasing after women since they were teenagers, driven by the same desires that haven’t faded with age. When a man spots a young woman in a bar, he doesn’t think, “I’m 45 and she’s half my age.” Instead, he thinks, “I want her.” That youthful desire reawakens, and suddenly, the confidence that comes with age makes it feel attainable.
In simpler terms: you are as old as you feel when you’re not thinking about age. When faced with reminders of our youth, we experience a mix of nostalgia and hope. We want to relive or, more accurately, relieve those youthful desires. One of my guilty pleasures now is cruising around my hometown with my husband, pretending he’s the high school boyfriend I never had. I also love binge-watching reruns of My So-Called Life or Friday Night Lights, both of which capture the beautiful agony of teenage desire perfectly.
None of this means I’m ready to jump into an affair with the goalie from my college lacrosse team. It was merely a thought that crossed my mind while I considered crashing a kegger.
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Summary:
The author reflects on a moment of temptation to attend a college kegger, grappling with feelings of nostalgia and the complexities of age. While contemplating the dynamics of attraction between ages, she humorously navigates her thoughts on youthful desires and the allure of college life. Ultimately, she shares her epiphany about the persistence of desire and the captivating nature of youthful encounters, all while playfully reconsidering her “free pass” in the context of her own experiences.