The Changing Face of Fun
Mar 01, 2025 06:00AM ● By Tara Ochs
Earlier this year, I was invited to an out-of-town weekend social event. My bestie from college was turning 50, so there was no chance of turning down the invite. Which is a weird thing to say. Why would anyone want to miss out on that kind of fun? Are you the type of person who hears “beach weekend with the girls/guys” and thinks, “Heck yeah, sign me up!”? I used to be… I definitely used to be the person that lept off every cliff, explored every cave and stayed until the end of the party. I once woke up this college bestie at three in the morning to go jump in our famous campus fountain.
But as things do, and as things have, I guess I’ve changed.
I say that reluctantly because I love that girl who found fun around every corner. But for a while now, she has felt very distant. I won’t say I miss her. Because waking up at three in the morning to jump in a fountain does not sound fun to me anymore. Do not attempt to make me get up at 3 a.m. to do anything. Fun for me now is making the perfect dough ball or sewing a costume for a friend. You know—inside stuff, stuff that’s quiet and maybe a bit isolated.
So when I got this invite, of course I said yes—but I also felt anxious, stressed and wary of how exhausted I’d be coming back to work the following Monday. Being around people I haven’t even seen in 30 years? And having to keep everyone entertained? And what are we even going to do all weekend? I had my reservations, but I went anyway.
I arrived at a beautiful beach house in Florida and was immediately thrown back into a mindset that the college girl version of me knew all too well—“I’m not cool enough.” For a solid two hours, I babbled, made jokes, bounced around the room—until the coffee wore off, and the late-40s energy reserves were tapped out. I took a deep breath and looked around. There they were: five very cool girls with five very different lives, yet all just like me—older, a little more tired, and still unsure. And also wondering what “fun” looks like these days.
For the next two days, we traded reading glasses, wrinkle creams, sleeping aids. We stared at old photos and tried to remember who dated whom. We went out on the town at 5 p.m. and were back home by 9, pulling on pajama pants and wiping off makeup that wasn’t worn for anybody but us. I can’t tell you what we did all weekend, but I was never bored, and I was never stressed. After the first two hours, the social anxiety took a back seat and pretty much never uttered another word.
I’m not really surprised that I had a wonderful time, and I feel duty-bound to tell you that there was nothing pathetic about our version of fun just because it wasn’t the rager of 30 years ago. What caught me off guard was the depth of joy I felt that weekend. The kind of joy that even gave me energy the following Monday. Sometimes you don’t know that a feeling has been absent until you feel it again. Is it like watering a plant? I wouldn’t know—I am terrible with plants.
Where had that joy come from? I don’t think it was from walking on the beach, drinking mimosas all morning, staying up all night or lounging in a hot tub. I think what I needed—and what I received in huge quantities that weekend—was to see other women like me. To laugh and cry with them. To see them without makeup, without total self-confidence, without all the answers—and to see them doing OK. I got a kind of loving confirmation, a deep knowing. This is what happens to all of us: We change. We get older. Life happens. Yet, we don’t really change. Because the joy is still there. It’s just maybe gained a little weight and lost a little hair. But it’s still there. I just needed my girls to help me take her out for a weekend. ❧
But as things do, and as things have, I guess I’ve changed.
I say that reluctantly because I love that girl who found fun around every corner. But for a while now, she has felt very distant. I won’t say I miss her. Because waking up at three in the morning to jump in a fountain does not sound fun to me anymore. Do not attempt to make me get up at 3 a.m. to do anything. Fun for me now is making the perfect dough ball or sewing a costume for a friend. You know—inside stuff, stuff that’s quiet and maybe a bit isolated.
So when I got this invite, of course I said yes—but I also felt anxious, stressed and wary of how exhausted I’d be coming back to work the following Monday. Being around people I haven’t even seen in 30 years? And having to keep everyone entertained? And what are we even going to do all weekend? I had my reservations, but I went anyway.
I arrived at a beautiful beach house in Florida and was immediately thrown back into a mindset that the college girl version of me knew all too well—“I’m not cool enough.” For a solid two hours, I babbled, made jokes, bounced around the room—until the coffee wore off, and the late-40s energy reserves were tapped out. I took a deep breath and looked around. There they were: five very cool girls with five very different lives, yet all just like me—older, a little more tired, and still unsure. And also wondering what “fun” looks like these days.
For the next two days, we traded reading glasses, wrinkle creams, sleeping aids. We stared at old photos and tried to remember who dated whom. We went out on the town at 5 p.m. and were back home by 9, pulling on pajama pants and wiping off makeup that wasn’t worn for anybody but us. I can’t tell you what we did all weekend, but I was never bored, and I was never stressed. After the first two hours, the social anxiety took a back seat and pretty much never uttered another word.
I’m not really surprised that I had a wonderful time, and I feel duty-bound to tell you that there was nothing pathetic about our version of fun just because it wasn’t the rager of 30 years ago. What caught me off guard was the depth of joy I felt that weekend. The kind of joy that even gave me energy the following Monday. Sometimes you don’t know that a feeling has been absent until you feel it again. Is it like watering a plant? I wouldn’t know—I am terrible with plants.
Where had that joy come from? I don’t think it was from walking on the beach, drinking mimosas all morning, staying up all night or lounging in a hot tub. I think what I needed—and what I received in huge quantities that weekend—was to see other women like me. To laugh and cry with them. To see them without makeup, without total self-confidence, without all the answers—and to see them doing OK. I got a kind of loving confirmation, a deep knowing. This is what happens to all of us: We change. We get older. Life happens. Yet, we don’t really change. Because the joy is still there. It’s just maybe gained a little weight and lost a little hair. But it’s still there. I just needed my girls to help me take her out for a weekend. ❧
Tara Ochs is a writer, producer and performer in Atlanta’s entertainment community. She produces content with Dagger, a creative agency, and can be seen on stage at Dad’s Garage Theater in the Old Fourth Ward performing live comedy.
