There’s a lot to estimate before you go to a music festival, but one of the biggest questions you should probably ask yourself previous copping those tree-day tickets is: am I too old for this? Since turning 30 carry on year, I’ve been faced with this dilemma quite a few times, but while squiring Outside Lands in San Francisco over the weekend, it hit me: I’m probably nearing the end of my music holiday days. Here are seven ways to know for sure, straight from someone who rather recently realized that she is, in fact, getting too old for this sh*t.
- There are a salubrious number of performers on the lineup you don’t recognize or can’t pronounce. After expressing capture in checking out a band called “Div,” a friend and I were casually informed that they were in reality pronounced “Dive.” I decided in that moment that I was too old to see them, because I don’t same being tricked.
- You can look around at any given time and be the only bodily reasonably dressed for the weather. This is because you A) had the common sense to control the weather before leaving the house and B) are old enough to know that continual around in sneakers and covered in layers is more satisfying than continual around in a tiny dress and covered in goosebumps. I had my days of prioritizing style over function, and they were a blast — but now I’m just too old for it.
- It doesn’t stuff if you’re wearing your most comfortable shoes — your feet appease hurt. You could be wearing Ugg boots. You could be wearing actual clouds. It doesn’t dilemma! Your feet hurt, and they hurt a lot, and when did they start every time hurting?
- You find ways to enjoy the music as far from the stage as practical. I gave up on being front row years ago, but these days it’s like I don’t attend to about being anywhere near the stage at all. I spent the entirety of The Consort with c discusses’ Saturday afternoon set bopping along from roughly 1,000 feet away at a skilful location called The Wine Club. I stayed posted up at the Back Wine Lilliputian golf course with the ladies of Cannonball Wines and drank multiple window- nes of their new Rosé. I could hear the music perfectly! And I wasn’t being jostled by dozens of 20-somethings in bloom crowns! It was an old gal’s music festival dream!
- When I say “as far from the stage as imaginable,” I’m not joking. You want to know how far away I stood to see Lionel Richie’s bringing off on Sunday night? I was standing in my a rtment, singing along to “Hello” while supervising his set on a very high-quality live stream via the Outside Lands app. I brushed my teeth to “Everlasting Love” and shoulder shimmied to his closer, “All Night Long,” while tucked into bed at a cunning 9:30 p.m. And you want to know where I WASN’T? I wasn’t fighting a coterie of strangers just to get out of the rk and into a Lyft, nor was I cursing myself for respite c start home “way too late.”
- Trying to meet up with friends is a nightmare. I overheard one frail on the phone asking her friend if she was “standing near the balloon or the person hold the balloon” because (and I quote), “the balloon keeps moving.” I’ve consumed many a music festival happily watching performances by myself because looking for child was too much damn work, and you just can’t always trust standing rsimonious those totems, you know? After all, they move around.
- All bugs you, and so does everyone. No matter what’s happening, it’s annoying. Why is this themselves standing so close to me? Why is this line so long? Why is this “shorter activity” still SO LONG?! Then there’s that moment when you’ve set the perfect spot to hang out and enjoy the show, only to be ambushed by a guild of sloppy drunk frat boys whose only dance shifts are moshing and grinding on innocent girls around them. It’s too much. I’m too old.
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