As we all know, I have many granny-esque tendencies. Hence the name of this website.

One such tendency is my habit of avoiding late night activities. I’ve never been a party girl. The loud music. The inability to hear someone talk. The sweaty forearms of youths brushing you as they hastily run past. The bad breath resulting from too much liquor. The inability to complete simple tasks the next day, like opening my eyes or putting on pants. It’s all just too much for me.

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When I was in college, I always left parties early by way of the Irish Exit (i.e. not saying goodbye to anyone, which I learned in Ireland is a totally offensive term, since Irish people would never ever leave without saying goodbye, because they’re the nicest, most social people on earth), which resulted in receiving 1,000 text messages from my friends the next morning that went something like this: “smoke signal!! r u alive??” “did u get kidnapped last nite?” “shanny, u rly have 2 start saying bye b4 u leave.” “we stayed up all nite trying to figure out which tracks in the snow were urs.” These are the kinds of friends people should have.

During the one and only summer that I attempted to be cool by going out to bars regularly (thanks to the endless energy of theme park performers), I was always pleased with the 1:30 a.m. last call. As my dad always says, nothing good happens after midnight, and that is the deepest truth I know. 1:30 a.m. is plenty late. I’m all for Virginia’s law to close bars at 2 a.m.

But then I moved to New York City, where bars close at 4 a.m., or maybe later since there are too many establishments for the police to know what’s going on. This was my personal idea of hell, because people don’t even start pregaming until 11 p.m. ELEVEN PEE EM. I see that time of night maybe like, once a month, on nights that I’m binge-watching MTV shows on Hulu. The only reason I didn’t get the reputation of a complete and total curmudgeon in NYC (just a partial curmudgeon) is because I tried to make up for my lack of nocturnal social participation by scheduling as many boozy brunches with my friends as possible. Brunch trumps everything in New York.

The walls I hit after aggressive and extensive socializing (usually at night, but occasionally during sunlight hours) are impossibly high, relentlessly thick, and made of concrete with barbed wire lining. I’m not sure why I was born with such impossible walls to scale, but I’ve come to accept them. Thank God they’re massive enough to see in the distance, so I can implement my departure plan before running straight into the barbed wire that punctures me to death. Being punctured to death on the inside makes me very cranky on the outside. My husband is slowly beginning to recognize the signs of these impending walls, as well, which is probably thanks to his strong survival instincts.

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Sometimes I get frustrated with my walls. I want to push through them– I really do. I often beat myself up for not having the strength that most people seem to have to muster a second or third wind, but then I remind myself that I can’t fight the disposition God gave me. He deemed me the old lady of the group, and that’s a role I must embrace and thrive in. Luckily, this role is becoming increasingly enjoyable with time, since my peers are slowly growing into the granny stage of life, themselves. I’ve been in this stage so long that I can show all the newcomers around, which is a wonderful position of power and hospitality! Wait, what, you’re staying in tonight? Let me show you how grand Friday nights at home can be! Come on over and join me for wine, cheese, and a good night’s rest!

The moral of the story here is that, for once, I’m not defending myself or trying to push myself in the name of self-growth. Nope, today’s post is about acceptance. I accept that I hit walls. I accept that I’m not built for social endurance. I accept that I’m the girl who has to take a nap in the backseat of the car on the side of a street in Ireland while everyone keeps pub hopping. This is me, world, just your average granny trapped in a Generation Y body.

If you’re a Generation grannY, too, let this post serve as a little encouragement in times when youths outlast you, or attempt to make you feel bad for hitting walls. You are not weak. You are a pillar of wisdom in a sea of tomfoolery. Now let’s enjoy our weekend of wine, cheese, and R&R!

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