You cringe when you see your dad light the cocktail menu with his iPhone at the cool, just-opened bar you so generously brought him to. You mercilessly make fun of your older sister when she can’t finish her Mai Tai on Tiki Monday because it’s just “too much alcohol.” And then one Saturday night, you almost spill your drink in shock when you catch yourself looking at the clock thinking, “10 p.m. already? It’s getting late!”
It’s officially happening: You’re getting too old for “young people” bars. Another sign? You’re calling them “young people” bars.
Here, seven signs that you, or someone you love, is too old for a bar.
You think anything past 5 p.m. is too late for happy hour.
The most important thing in your life has become the Bedtime app on your iPhone and it demands that you’re asleep by 10 p.m. Eight hours of sleep is not only crucial for your 6 a.m. workout, it’s an absolute necessity for a productive day at the office. So you have to be out of the bar before 7 p.m. at the very latest to make sure you’re home, fed and in bed with enough time left to finish that Netflix doc you started the night before.
You need a headlamp to read the menu.
That REI purchase for your camping trip last summer has become the most useful tool you own. Paired with those new prescription aviators you got last Christmas, you’re seeing clearer than ever before. While that set-up may work when you’re building your tiny ship-in-a-bottle, it’s just not appropriate for the bar. If the candles aren’t enough, then it’s time for you to get out.
You don’t know what cachaça is, nor do you care how to pronounce it.
Ka-cha-kah? Ka-sa-shack? How the heck do you say that? It’s from Brazil? Who wants to drink anything from Brazil? Didn’t you watch the coverage from Rio last summer? Esoterica was great for when you cared about trying to seem hip, but now it just means having to look things up. And you don’t have time for that. You still haven’t finished Wednesday’s Sudoku.
While your five-year-old twins run amuck in the bar, you pretend not to notice (what kids?), unconcernedly sipping your Daiquiri until the bartender kicks you and your brood out. Your bar times are over, sorry to say. Get thee to a park. Also, we’re pretty sure we just saw the big one eat something off the floor—and they don’t serve food at this bar.
You don’t even remember the last time you got ID’d.
Yes, that heavy swath of gray in your beard makes you look distinguished, but it is also a telltale sign that your prime bar hopping days are over. It’s time to trade in that dark, crowded hipster hangout for a sensible pub.
You don’t even try to understand what anyone’s saying over the music anymore.
The music is deafening. You have to shout your order to the bartender. And if, god forbid, he asks you a follow up question about your order, you have no choice but to nod, because who the heck can hear over this gosh darn ruckus?! If you’re considering wearing earplugs the next time you head out to the bar, just stay home.
You try and pay for your tab with an AARP card.
And no, bars don’t take coupons—or Diner’s Club.