There are a lot of warning signs that you’re getting older, but most of them are subtle at first. You don’t wake up one day ancient. It’s more like a series of small betrayals. Your back announces the weather. Your knees sound like they’re unwrapping candy. You start saying things like “I’ll just stand here for a second” for no identifiable reason.
But the real confirmation—the kind that removes all doubt—happens in the grocery store.
Because one day, you’re minding your own business, staring at a wall of pasta sauce, when a song you listened to in high school starts playing over the speakers.
Not a remix. Not a cover. Not “inspired by.”
The actual song.
The one that once defined you.
And it’s playing at a volume specifically designed not to distract you from comparing sodium levels.
At first, your brain refuses to accept it. This must be coincidence. A glitch. Someone hijacked the playlist. Maybe the store manager is exactly your age and feeling nostalgic. Surely this song—this sacred relic of late-night drives, bad haircuts, and questionable decisions—has not been approved for public consumption between the deli counter and frozen pizzas.
But there it is. Clean. Polite. Emotionally declawed.
Your teenage rebellion is now “store ambiance.”
That’s when you realize the music didn’t get old. You did.
Because once your music hits the grocery store, it’s officially done its cultural journey. It’s gone from edgy to acceptable to comforting. It has been reviewed by a committee and declared non-threatening. Your angst has been focus-grouped.
This is music that once felt like a statement. Now it’s background noise while someone asks over the intercom if there’s a cleanup needed in aisle seven.
What really drives it home is that nobody else reacts.
You’re standing there having a quiet existential moment, and everyone around you is completely unbothered. No one freezes. No one gasps. No one says, “Hey, wasn’t this song about emotional collapse?” They’re just grabbing bananas and moving on with their lives.
Your soundtrack to youthful confusion is now helping strangers pick cereal.
That’s a tough pill to swallow.
Because when you first heard these songs, they meant something. You didn’t listen casually. You listened dramatically. You listened like someone might someday ask you to explain yourself in court.
These songs were played loud, preferably at night, preferably while staring out a window like you were in a movie about yourself. They were not meant to be played while deciding whether store-brand hummus is “basically the same.”
And yet, here we are.
The grocery store is where nostalgia goes to finish its shift. It’s the final resting place for cultural relevance. Once something ends up there, it’s not coming back. It’s not edgy. It’s not ironic. It’s just… safe.
Your teenage self would be mortified.
Teenage you believed music was identity. Music separated people. Music mattered. Teenage you would never have imagined hearing this song while pushing a cart with a mildly squeaky wheel and a coupon for dish soap.
Teenage you would absolutely not believe you’re now nodding along slightly.
Because that’s the real horror: you don’t hate it.
In fact, you might like it.
You don’t like it in a “this still defines me” way. You like it in a “well, this is pleasant” way. Which is worse. That’s not passion—that’s acceptance. That’s adulthood sneaking up and putting a hand on your shoulder.
You don’t feel the need to explain the song to anyone. You don’t want to defend its importance. You don’t even care if the lyrics are censored. You just let it play while you reach for eggs.
That’s how you know you’ve crossed over.
Because aging isn’t about aches or gray hair or suddenly caring about fiber. It’s about the moment your personal soundtrack gets absorbed into the retail ecosystem and you barely flinch.
You hum. Quietly. Tastefully. Like someone who understands there are rules now.
The song ends. Another one starts. You move on.
And honestly? There are worse ways to find out you’re getting older than standing in a grocery store, cart half full, hearing a piece of your past drift by while you debate whether you really need snacks for the week.
You came in for groceries.
You left with dinner, paper towels, and a gentle reminder that time has been moving forward this whole time.
And that song?
It’s not yours anymore.
It belongs to the store now.