March 9, 2006
Aging isn't all that tragic
My friends in Chicago are starting to marry and have babies.

Jill Brooks Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

I'm losing my cool.

I once held prime real estate on four different friends' couches in downtown Chicago.

I'd go up for frequent concerts and we'd party like, and with, rock stars (four beers and no drugs was partying like a rock star, to me).

Ah, the delicious salad days, the days where meeting bands and hanging out backstage led to the occasional white lie as to my whereabouts. It was a selfless act so as not to worry anyone; I was always quite thoughtful.

My routine went something like this:
Concert ticket: Free (guest list).
Round of drinks: Free (female).
Memoirs left to my imaginary grandchildren: Priceless.

I liked being unattached, talking "music" for hours and collecting photographs.

I know, it was only rock 'n' roll, but I really liked it.

Most of those Chicago friends have either married or moved away, but one girlfriend still remains in the city, living a modern romance with boyfriend and baby.

She and I met on our first "Tragically Hip weekend" eight years ago in Detroit. There, we began our friendship, together and with the "Hip."

Every year I'd use my vacation days or call in sick and we'd attend shows: We were band-aids, and we were pretty good at it.

I visited her last weekend in Chicago and, my, how things have changed.

I was already tired and hung over when I got there.

I wanted a simple cocktail and a quick nap on my "property," but was instead handed a six-month-old baby: cruel, and highly unusual.

My friend let slip the phrase "I'm so ready to party," dooming the evening's promising excitement into the realm of: Jinx!

Spontaneous party evenings can't be talked about; they must erupt from least common denominators, fate with complete strangers and mistakes gone right.

How fun is a perfectly crafted New Year's Eve?

My point, exactly.

Our once typical, free-flowing stints inside several trendy bars in one night, meeting scads of new people (namely free-flowing men), was quickly replaced by disinterest, and my friend's routine calls home to check on her baby.

A young man sat next to me at a bar and smiled. From his mustache-sporting lips his dragon breath sputtered, "Dude, got a light?"

I put an imaginary phone to my ear and motioned to my friend that I was stepping outside.
It sneaked up on me, but, alone, I breathed in the cool lake air and felt contentment from being a mature, responsible adult.

Besides, the Tragically Hip's next tour doesn't begin until September.