I understand that some young whipper-snapper called those who left last night’s blogfest early, “old” and even went so far as to question our ability to use computers (back in my day they had these things called floppies and they came in two sizes and we programmed with numbers and our printer paper was HUGE). Since I took my crowd home at 9, I admit that I fall in the old people category. In my defense, it was the youngest member of my group who let me know he had out-stayed his welcome by rolling on the floor and laughing hysterically. It’s been a long time since I spent time in bars, but if I recall correctly, only beautiful, female twenty-somethings can get away with writhing on the floor. If they roll around on the table, men give them money. My companion was a 16-month-old male who had already run circles around the tables and made sure to touch every single thing in the bar. After eating the lemon out of my drink and demanding sip after sip of “tea-tea-TEA” (in my defense against worst mother of the year label, the tea in our house is decaf), he made repeated attempts to get to the top of the staircase. Without Julie’s help, I’m certain he would have fallen down the stairs. One time, he moved a bit too fast and I experienced the closest thing to sliding into home plate that I will ever know. I lunged, dropped to my knees, uttered a name that some might call a prayer (but my father would call something ugly) and slid as I grabbed the back of his overalls and pulled him away from danger. Today I have two large purple bruises under my knees. Old people bruise easily, you know.