It was Sunday night that I realized, without a doubt, that I have become an old lady.  I understand that most people (over 18, anyway) don't consider 34 to be all that old, but I'm not talking about age here.  I'm talking about mindset. 

A few years ago when I was in grad school, while I had acquaintances of all ages, I mostly hung out with people in their mid- to late-20s.  Our lifestyles were more similar.  I lived alone, had no job, no pets, nothing to tie me down.  Aside from being in financial debt, I was free.  And for the most part, I really enjoyed that.  It felt a little weird being comparatively old and yet so unrestrained, but mostly I saw that as a little gift, largely because I knew it wouldn't last.

But now things are different.  There are little strings tying me to this and that, which also feels weird (and occasionally stifling), after years of freedom, but also comforting.  I feel pretty grounded, which I figure is a good thing, most of the time.  It's a big change, though, and transitions are rarely easy for me. 

Anyway, Sunday night--Monday morning, actually, at 2 AM--some of my neighbors were having a party.  Which is understandable.  After all, most of them probably didn't have to work the next day because of MLK's birthday, and the ones that did were probably young enough that they would still be able to function with only two hours of sleep and a vicious hangover.

But I need as much sleep as I can get.  And I had to work in the morning.  Usually, I can sleep through almost anything, but it sounded like the party was outside.  And people were screaming.  I heard various neighbors yelling out their windows, "Shut up!"  "Be quiet!"  To be fair, I think somehow the noise was amplified, and it's not like drunk people can tell how noisy they are.

Still.  It was late.  And they were being rude.  Finally, I'd had enough.  I jumped out of bed and said to B, "I'm calling the police."

He said, "Someone should."

So I did.  I spoke to a nice lady who took down the address and asked if I wanted to talk to the officer when he/she arrived.

"No!" I said.  "I don't want to be involved.  I just want them to be quiet."

I hung up the phone, and B said, "You just called the police."  His tone was a mixture of: "Duuuude" and "Haha, you're old."

And I laughed and said, "I know!"

I knew I'd turned a page.  Not a chapter, and not even necessarily the last page of a chapter--maybe the first page of a new chapter.  It's the little things, the small moments, that we remember, I think.  Or at least it's true for me.  Because even if the little thing is utterly insignificant on paper or in a conversation, it's the feeling that sticks. That moment of recognition. Feelings are often stronger than actions, I think.  Actions can be forgotten, and when we remember them, it might be simply because they make remembered feeings explicable.

I actually have mixed feelings about the police.  I generally interact with a cop a few times a month.  I have to go to a precinct to look at the criminal files so I can write the Police Beat for the paper--you know, it's the part that describes local crimes and names the offenders.  And I hate it.  Why do I have to publicize that some fool got busted smoking weed outside a club?  What about that "crime" is newsworthy?  And I've said to my editor that I really feel that Police Beat is really an invasion of privacy, particularly since the alleged offenders haven't been found guilty, but no dice.   

I also had to deal with cops back in October when my '93 Honda Accord was stolen from in front of my apartment.  It was a policeman that told me that old cars are stolen more often than new ones, because old ones are easier to steal.  And it was a policeman that called to tell me my car had been found, two weeks after my insurance company had closed the claim and paid me for the car and I had purchased a new one.  My car had been ditched in a no parking zone, of course, and because the department that gives out parking tickets is not part of the police department, it didn't have access to the database that listed my car as stolen, so I was saddled with three tickets (which I didn't end up having to pay, but it was a pain in the ass going through the process to clear the charges).

I don't know.  In the end, I guess, my attitude toward the police is somewhat akin to my attitude toward god.  When in a jam, I really want to believe in them--and the older I get, the more true that becomes. 

It's a crazyass world out there. And I'm too old and cranky for its shit.