I can mark the exact moment that I became old.
It was an unseasonably warm evening a few nights ago and as I went outside to take out the garbage, a house on the next street caught my attention. Over the past year, this house was torn down to its foundation and rebuilt as a two story dwelling, which towered above the ranch-style houses that comprised the majority of my neighborhood. The sky was turning dark purple and a sliver of moon appeared in the sky. I could hear voices. It was the unmistakable, squeal-y sound of tweens. Just under their rapid-fire conversation, there was music. I believe it was the vaguely chipmunk-like tones of the brothers Jonas. The din emanated from an open window on the house’s second floor and wafted over the roofs of the dwellings on my street right on to my front porch. As I went back inside, I sincerely hoped that those kids weren’t going to be up playing that music all night.