I'm officially old.
No, I haven't turned 40--yet, but it's probably fair to say we're bumping hips.
No, it's not that I found my first gray hair. L'Oreal already sends me an annual thank you card.
And no, it's not because I can no longer tell you who half the people are in my high school yearbook who promised they LYLAS and wanted to KIT.
The reason I'm officially old is that I rode the elevator today, and during my ride down 15 floors, wafting through the mysterious speakers that fill the space with ambient noise (where are those speakers anyway? and is do they play that music so I won't feel so alone while I'm in there?) were the soothing sounds of George Michael--set to MUZAK!
At first I didn't recognize the ditty, but something felt familiar. My mind kept wanting to make sense of the hypnotizing tones that seeped into my ears like alien life forms in their liquid state.
Then all of the sudden it hit me.
"Do do do da da da dada...Somebody tell me (won't you tell me) why I work so hard for you."
Images of crooning along with the pre-bathroom-hole-poking-George as I rode down 4th St. with my BFFs are crystal clear in my head.
But I have to face it. It's time to grow up. When the music from your youth is set to a Casio keyboard, some strings and a bass guitar it's time to admit it.
"My God. I don't even think that I love you!"