I’m too old for my age. Let me explain.

It has finally happened. I’m sitting in my apartment this evening, sipping wine out of a water-spotted brandy glass, eating club crackers, listening to jazz and wearing a shawl. I’m so embarrassed that I might have to skip water aerobics this week; I’ve officially gone off the deep end.

Loads of young people can be overheard lamenting that they were born in the wrong era: “I wish I were a flapper,” “I’d love it if women wore hats again” or, “Corsets aren’t so bad.” Why is this? Are the 2000s so awful that we project majesty onto the days of old? Or was “back in the day,” with all of its “uphill, both ways” and outdoor toilets, actually preferable?

Or perhaps, as is most likely, our Rolling Stones-era parents have taught us that satisfaction is out of reach. This could explain the regrettable ruthlessness that exists among those in the business world: We rat out our friends if it will get us a promotion, we stay caffeinated into the wee hours of the night (read: 11:30 p.m.), perfecting our resum?s, and we either remain with significant others who don’t recognize our fabulousness or we jump from one bed to another on the quest of someone better, someone greater, someone else.

When does it end? Will we ever be satisfied? Are we doomed to resign ourselves to living in Audrey Hepburn movies, vowing never to leave the house without a strand of pearls and a French cigarette? Is it wrong to want a French cigarette?

Fashion is recyclable, so why can’t the attitude also be recyclable? The Humphrey Bogarts of the world should all stand up, toss their fedoras in the air and dip their lady into a Hollywood kiss. Women should come floating down their grand staircases in luxurious ballgowns and chandelier earrings, all for an evening’s night out on the town. And the food! No Papa John’s or Jimmy John’s-but tonight’s menu features orecchiette with spicy sausage and broccoli rabe, endive and fris?e salad with blood oranges and hazelnuts, verdure al forno and panna cotta with fresh berries. And men would find that their dance cards fill up much more quickly when they stop searching for someone who suits them and simply don a suit-for it is that simple, fellas. Ladies just want a man who looks damn fine in a suit.

Maybe if the effort and the desire were there, Cinderella could get her fancy dress and handsome cartoon prince without the intervention of the off-key stepsisters and middle-aged stepmother. Maybe, just maybe, we can achieve satisfaction without all of the unsightly leggings and off-center ponytails. Some recycled fashion choices should just be thrown away, environmentalists be damned.

So it comes down to this: do we continue searching for what is going to be wonderful about the 2000s, or do we find comfort in that which a past population carved out for themselves? It’s OK to play dress-up; no one can be faulted for having fun. But at the end of the day, are we ourselves in the 2000s, or are we hoping to be someone else?

Well, the bottle of wine is empty now, and I suppose my trip down another’s memory lane is concluded. Maybe a bottle of wine is all that is needed to be transported to another time, or maybe all it takes is some dedication. Satisfaction with today’s world is possible-and I’ll be damned if I can’t get it.