There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while, but I’ve been reluctant to bring it up until now. At first I wasn’t sure if it was a fluke — weird things happen in Manhattan, you know? A penguin once told me he’d tested positive for Hep B over a Tom Collins at Pravda. I don’t judge. But when I started seeing it in the outer boroughs — when it came to my favorite corner bar in my neighborhood — I knew I had to say something about these hip young adults who think it’s appropriate to bring their aging, enfeebled parents into bars with them.
Listen, I get it. Your father, who was once the strongest and the bravest man in the world, is slowly being replaced by an old man you can’t recognize, and the fact that he no longer heads for the driver’s seat automatically when you go out to dinner together floods your veins with ice and your eyes with tears. But that’s no excuse for taking up an ENTIRE BOOTH at Tricky Jimmy’s No. 41 just because you’re horrified at the idea of the young man you remember teaching you to ride a bicycle having trouble unfolding the napkin into his lap.
I get it: his hands are shaking, when they were once the sturdiest force on earth. But guess what, pal? Not all of us choose to have parents who grow old and die. And frankly, we don’t appreciate being forced to support your lifestyle choices. That’s not what I signed up for when I moved to New York City. When I’m out with my friends, I don’t want to have to watch my language because some random word might jolt your foggy-eyed mother back into the present for a few lucid, anguished moments. Just because we’re in the “greater walker zone” of Park Slope doesn’t mean your dad can park his tennis-ball-capped cane on my barstool.
And when I go to the bathroom after a few too many rum-and-Jäger martinis, the last thing I want to see is you leaning against the wall, sobbing so hard you can scarcely catch your breath as your mother whispers “I think I had an accident,” in the kind of cruel role reversal time forces on us all while you moan, “I can’t do this, I can’t do this, come back to us, Momma please.” Ex-cuse me, some of us were hoping to get lucky in the handicapped stall with the cute bartender with that lazy eye.
Also, it’s kind of unfair to the servers.
I get it! I realize that having parents slowly (God, so slowly) succumbing to the aging process doesn’t mean you love going out any less, and that just because your parents had to sell the house and it turned out your mom slipped in the shower last September and your dad couldn’t help her get up until you came over and they said “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s nothing, don’t worry,” but you still did worry and now they live with you and it’s a burden and you know it and they know it only you won’t admit it, just smile tightly and cry every second you think you’re alone because you never expected that your parents would dwindle like this, you hoped they’d be vigorous and present right until the end, but they’re not, something’s taking them before they go, they’re dwindling in spirit and energy and hope and frame right in front of you, you don’t think you should have to stay home. But there’s a time and place in your life for finding your fun at bars. And that’s when you find an in-home nurse who can lift 200 pounds and knows how to deal with noncompliant patients.
I’m not a monster. I’ll give up my seat on the subway for your shuffling, diminished-capacity-ass parents. I’ll even tolerate waiting in line behind them at the Urgent Care Center because your dad’s liver medication is interfering with the stuff he’s been taking for his glaucoma that he can’t remember the name of (another MINUS in the parents category — their pills suck). But I have to draw the line: Not In My Bar.
Honestly, it kind of feels like you’re clinging to adulthood, and it’s not a good look.
Tags: aging, bars, death, humor, i’m sick and tired
Related Posts
The Great Playwrights Ranked By Cause of Death
Age Ain’t Nothing But A Perfectly Accurate Representation of How Old You Are
Every English Novel Ever
Millennials Are Growing Raven-Black Wings So Much Sooner Than Previous Generations It’s Changing The Way Heaven Builds Its Defensive Walls
His Substance Abuse Problem Was Different
If We Treated Other Life-Cycle Benchmarks The Way We Treated Getting Married And Having Kids
Ooooooof.
(That is the sound one makes after a sharp blow to the gut, right? Gah.)
my bones have melted and now i’m a puddle of skin and now the puddle is crying
It’s like that one freaky-ass last Human on Dr Who who was nothing but a skin-frame, and then one day she cried, and her tear caused her to implode.*
*possibly not an accurate recreation of that plot line
JESUS MALLORY
Ok. I mean, usually it’s my senior citizen parents dragging me to the cool bars but, point taken.
only you won’t admit it, just smile tightly and cry every second you think you’re alone because you never expected that your parents would dwindle like this
OUCH
My father died, disappearing pound by pound and ounce by ounce, over a decade. It wasn’t as dire as it sounds: he had time and energy in those years for joy and love and reading Shakespeare and family dinners and wine in the sunshine. And I value all those years, even the hardest half-year at the end. And you’re darn tootin’ I would’ve taken his to a classy upscale bar if I’d thought of it. He would have loved the resurgence of popularity in high-quality cocktails and house-made infusions.
My mother remains so vigorous and cheerful that I sometimes forget her age, then some small symptom blindsides me and I have ALL THE FEELINGS.
My dad died in a similar vein: stomach cancer slowly consumed him until only a husk remained and worse, he never came to terms with his mortality. He died at home, during the night, with me sleeping in my old bedroom next door, so at least I was there for him at his final moment (during this time, I was living over 800 KM away and man, I’ll always regret not making it home more often while he was alive).
My mother just passed a little over a year ago and her death was equally painful: dementia and assorted ills in a competent but understaffed nursing home.
Gah! I guess what I’m saying is: wring every positive interaction out of your parents while you can, you’ll never, ever regret it.
Well now I’m going to go sit quietly and be sad.
I’m going to determinedly think about my late father drinking a specialty cocktail liquor and mixers from a high-quality glass in a handsome heavy glass with the big chunks of ice that posh bars sometimes use, and smile at the pleasure all that attention to detail would have given him.
I’m going to try, anyway. Oof.If it doesn’t work, can I come be sad with you or is that a solo project?
I saw the Nopetapus below your comment and laughed and then read your comment and teared up and then there was a diet coke happening somewhere in there and now my sinuses hurt. So yes, come be sad with me and my sinuses.
My parents tend to invite themselves along to gigs that my brother and sister are going to. Or they just go by themselves, without a child to tag along with. They are the coolest/somewhat embarrassing. (And, thank god, not old yet. Dear parents: please do not get infirm, please.)
I know this is a weirdly specific thing and I haven’t commented very much but you seem like an accepting bunch so here goes:
I’m going home for my dad’s 65th birthday next week and sometimes (only sometimes!) I worry if I don’t have kids soon they won’t be able to grow up with their grandparents and I really want them to. I want my parents to meet my kids.
My mum is super healthy and active (we did a 14km hike last year) but my dad has a host of chronic health problems and OH GOD I CAN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT THIS.
My mom died a couple of years ago and even though I don’t have any kids and really didn’t want any, her death shut that door completely because the thought of my child not getting to experience her unending well of love means that it will be impossible for them to have a life anywhere near as wonderful as it could have been.
So, I know exactly what you mean.
(Nothing but sunshine and roses on The Toast today, kids.)
(in reply to your parenthetical) I like how yesterday we were all going on about the fountain of joy that the toast pushes through our veins all the time and today the toast gods say: HEARTBREAK. Anniversary has been celebrated, time to crush your souls!
” and today the toast gods say: HEARTBREAK. Anniversary has been celebrated, time to crush your souls!”
THIS.
I think about something like this, though not quite this, a lot. I started dating my now-husband at the same time that my father went into home hospice. I was so, so tired and sad and exhausted, and The Fella was so, so patient and sweet and unfailingly kind; I knew right away that he was special.
The day my parents would have met him was, instead, the day my father died. Dad died without every knowing the man I would marry, without seeing how much he loved me, how sweetly he treated me, how happy I was with him.
And it mattered. My father died without ever seeing that, despite a first partner who died too young and a string of bad relationships, I ended up not just partnered, but with a partner who made me happier and stronger. I think about that sometimes.
And then I remember that the contingencies of my life — the different tangents it takes and the goals and relationships and love and accomplishments — would have brought him joy, it’s true, but they weren’t essential to our relationship. Or to his joy for me, or in me. Dad loved me and he knew I deserved the best. He never knew I got it, but I did, and that has to be enough.
And most days, it is.
My spouse’s dad died the year before we were married, and we lived in different countries. I only got to meet him a few times before he got ill, and saw him in the hospital just once, but it does mean a lot to me that I knew him, and has meant more and more over the decades of our marriage. (God, I’ve been married for plural decades now.)
We’ve still got his mom, so she & my parents have been great grandparents to our kids, but I wish FIL had been able to see his son as a dad. He loved being a grandparent, and I’m glad he had that in his life, but I’m jealous on my kids’ behalf that their cousins have memories of their grandfather, and sad that my spouse doesn’t get to share how much he loves fatherhood with his own father, who was the most amazing role model ever for the man I married.
(And now I’m crying.)
But also, my FIL knew his son would be an amazing father, and he knew that his son & I were going to build a great life together, and I bet your parents know these things about you, too. You’ll pass the love of your parents on to your children if the time comes that they can’t do it themselves.
I think about this ALL THE TIME, but I’m not going to have kids (my sister is). My parents want to be grandparents pretty bad, although they try not to pressure us, and thinking about my sister’s kids never really knowing them, the way I never really knew my grandfathers, makes me want to cry forever.
So. Yes. You are not alone.
IMy parents are 67 and 58. I think about this ALL THE TIME and I feel so much pressure to have children sooner than I would like to. On the one hand, I want to do so much before I settle down. On the other, I can’t bear to think about trying to raise children without their help. Or worse…trying to do it while caring for my elderly parents
This is so unfair. I feel like I was tricked into reading this. I had no idea where it was going and that it would tear out all of my organs one by one.
RIGHT I want my money back this is garbage
I REFUSE TO FEEL MY FEELINGS YOU CAN’T MAKE ME MALLORY GET OUT OF HERE
I forgot how painful this article was & accidentally REREAD IT. Truly an example of “fool me twice.”
STOP IT
The advert below this post was for Stannah stairlifts.Good work, ad targeting!
My mom has a physical disability, and installed a stair chair in her house in preparation for her last knee replacement. Now she can handle the stairs, but it is really nice to have it there so that a) we don’t have to get it when she “needs” it, which is a downer, and b) elderly relatives can visit really easily, and c) she gets to call it her “wine chair,” so that if she has too much wine with dinner, presto, she can take the chair!
Having a wine chair sounds amazing.
My parents considered one of those before my mom’s last surgery too. They got rid of the house and lived on a boat for a while instead, but one of these days they’ll be back to the stair chair plan.
Your mother is a genius! We had a stair chair, installed for my grandfather (with much wailing over the gorgeous wooden bannister that was torn out to make room; you have never seen a family more attached to simple objects than my family), but it was taken out by the time we moved into the house to care for my grandmother, and often we wished to have it back before someone needed it, or because someone had sprained an ankle, or to help a drunken aunt to the guest room, or just because.
My grandma uses it to send the laundry upstairs, and other unwieldy things.
Well that was a punch to the gut.
Though, in the middle of reflecting on my parents and how my mom is going through this with my nana and I’m so thankful that both my mom and dad are still physically and mentally strong and one day they probably won’t be and how that is bullshit, I still found myself laughing at the phrase “shuffling, diminished-capacity-ass parents”. If we can’t have a good gallows humor giggle, then what have we got? *sigh*
Well, thát made me cry. STUPID TOAST.
Literally crying at my desk now, so that’s a cool start to the holiday weekend!
Rum-and-Jäger martinis, though. Yum.
They should have, like, apple juice-and-warm-milk sections of bars just for aging grandparents and their beloved young grandkids to sit and color together. Raffi on the jukebox, whole nine.
Fuck it, I’m bringing generations to the bar. However, my parents would run for the exit as soon as the word mixologist tumbled out of someone’s mouth. I’ll have to wait until they lose enough of their hearing to suffer fools semi-gladly.
whoa.
You poseurs. My dad had progressive-relapsing MS since before I was born, and died of brain cancer when I was in high school (luck o’ the Irish). I was wiping my dad’s ass before it was cool.
I, for one, look forward to the day I can bring my upcoming human baby and my 82 year old father to the same bar. I’ll breast feed and advocate pit bull ownership as I do it. I’ll order the kale.
My dad will be like, Sandy Hook was a false flag operation. The baby will be like wahhhh. I’ll be flashing so much titty. My mom will be asking the server for a flexible straw, because all restaurants secretly stock these along with the standard kind.
I’ll be at the next table with my baby, hoisting a virgin daiquiri and flashing a boob back atcha. 😉
I went to the comments and found out that other readers were having, like, emotional feelings about this piece, and now I’m not sure if I’m a monster because I was grinning the whole time.
RIGHT?
IT’S NOT JUST YOU.
I just dragged a misbehaving two-year-old through a Shoppers Drug Mart, so I ain’t even sad.
This post makes me feel kind of lucky that my father and I are estranged, and my mother died in her sleep with no warning. So…that’s…good…
Right?
I'll be at the next table with my baby, hoisting a virgin daiquiri and flashing a boob back atcha. 😉
I'm pretty sure articles sharing that opinion were exactly what was being gently mocked by this article.