You would think the transformative experience of turning 21 would forever protect you from the kids’ table on momentous occasions; you would not be me.
This weekend, without rhyme or reason, I found myself sitting at the kids’ table at a wedding in Cincinnati, Ohio.
“You gotta give algebra a chance man! It all builds on itself; I swear you’re going to come around to the x=y stuff, just give it time,” I told Billy, the fifth grader next to me.
“Oh no, just drop her dude, she doesn’t get it then. SpongeBob isn’t a ‘kiddy show’, it’s a — you’re so right — it’s a thoughtful examination of what it means to be a sponge at the bottom of the ocean.”
“I hear you. Preach, preacher. Seventh grade basketball tryouts are an amalgam of hopeful anticipation and sheer terror. What’s amalgam? It’s like a mixtu— don’t worry about it. Tryouts are rough, that’s all.”
For the better part of two hours, I was wedged between a faction of grade schoolers in the corner of a wedding tent adjacent to the buzzing generator. We were the last to be served. It wasn’t long before I realized we’d also be the first to go if the generator malfunctioned and exploded in a ball of celebratory fire.
It’s hard getting the servers’ attention when you’re too preoccupied monitoring the bride’s young cousin next to you as they struggle to transport food from their plate to mouth. Nevertheless, every time a waiter walked by, I stood up, license in hand, asking for some champagne, “Since I’m 21 and all … legal adult, you know how it is with older people.”
No one noticed. My comrades and I ended up splitting Martinelli’s as the toasting began. The carbonation was rough on Suzy’s esophagus. “Sip it slowly,” I said. This was the bride’s night, to be sure, but the collective conscience of the party couldn’t help but sneak glances at the behemoth (me) sitting in the corner, his knees well above the table’s height.
It can be a humbling experience, sitting with children ten years younger than you as your colleagues drink and celebrate an otherwise magical evening. But maybe humbling is what we all need a little more of these days. We spend so much time — I’ll rephrase that — I spend so much time doing everything in my power to make sure I don’t make a fool of myself, that people only see the pristine, coagulated shell and not the crumbling mess harbored within.
Life is one massive room full of people at kids’ tables trying to not make eye contact with the other losers around the room in the same position. It becomes much more enjoyable when we all just own up to the absurdity and loosen up our ties. Yes, this experience is awkward and unexplainable at times, but without those moments we’re just ghosts in suits floating around a room.
It’s better to sit up tall and laugh than hunch over your bread plate hoping no one notices you. Everyone’s got a kids’ table in their life, and trust me when I say we all notice it. Life is so much cooler if we just embrace that.
It’s something I think we can all toast to.
