After being SURE it wouldn’t happen this soon (and back in
high school, swearing it would NEVER happen), it happened.
I got old this summer.
It wasn’t an instant, overnight transformation. It’s not like I left the house a young
whippersnapper and returned a blue-haired, 17-mile-an-hour driving grandmother,
who fully stops at every intersection, even when there is no stop sign in
sight, causing the minivan behind her to bump into her. (Or so I’ve heard can happen to moms in
minivans behind old ladies in sedans.)
Nor was it as instant as the time in June when I thought I became
suddenly and completely incontinent while at my son’s baseball game, only to
discover that instead of wetting myself, I sweated myself. (Yes, I’ve sweat violently before like when I
did the 3-day walk. http://alittleconsiderationandthought.blogspot.com/2011/12/wanting-to-quit-but-i-didnt.html I just didn’t
think this level of perspiration was possible while just SITTING at a suburban
park.)
Getting old slowly happened over the summer, to the point
that here at the start of this school year, it hit me: HOLY CRAP! I’m old! I started the summer far younger, I am
sure. (Someone please tell me I haven’t
been this old for YEARS and just now figured it out!) I noticed a hint of old as I saw young girls
walking on the Prairie Path in flip-flops and I wondered how their feet didn’t
hurt. A muted essence of age wafted over
my impatient thoughts, as I wanted to correct the grammar of almost every
popular song I heard. (When did
noun/verb agreement go out of style? And
don’t even get me started on rap music and its incomplete words and sentences.)
Specifically, being old hit me when I was at the local
bar/bowling alley to hear my son’s band play a gig. My thoughts scared me. It started with the red X scrawled onto the
top of my hand. You know, one day –
they will confirm that this permanent marker ink gets absorbed into the bloodstream
and leads to cancer. When I walked over to meet up with the group
already gathered at the tables, my first thought was: Ugh! We got those tall
bar tables and chairs! At least the
chairs have a back. I then wondered
where to safely and hygienically stash my purse when I realized that most other
women (ok – “girls”) had smaller, wristlet type purses that they kept on their
lap. Far more convenient, but there’s
NO WAY they are truly prepared with that shrunken excuse of a purse. My gosh! How do they carry gum, floss,
Tylenol, money, a hair elastic, pen and paper, lip gloss, coupons, hand
sanitizer, a Sharpie and tissue in that thing?
There were a few
bands playing at the bar, and I’m proud relieved to report that I didn’t
use earplugs. But my granny thoughts
were rapid firing! I can’t understand a word they’re saying! (Believe
me, I was trying!) Do you think these boys went to college, and do they make
an actual living doing this? OMG! Is he barefoot on stage? That cannot be clean! Gosh, I hope he doesn’t have open cuts on his
feet because goodness knows what he might be picking up.
It was sometime
around this phase of my thinking that I realized my girlfriend was trying to
talk to me. But I couldn’t hear her or
adequately read her lips due to the bar’s conservation efforts to save the
planet by keeping their lights so darn low.
So, we resorted to texting each other while sitting less than two feet
away from one another. We agreed that
while we really enjoyed meeting up for a drink, eating the hot Bavarian
pretzels with mustard and listening to the bands, we knew we were firmly rooted
in the not-a-spring-chicken-anymore category.
The girlfriend sitting on the other side of me confirmed my suspicions
when she said (actually, texted), “Why do these boys on stage look about 12 and
I feel about 80? And what’s with capris
on boys?”
Yes, I was out for a
night with my family and friends, and it WAS fun – but it was also a rather
melancholy reality that bit me! I don’t
think I would have readily agreed that I felt old and stodgy prior to this
particular night out. (Heck – just a
month earlier, I went with a group of girlfriends to see an 80’s hair band play
an arena concert, and I didn’t feel old!
Maybe I was oddly comforted by the parking lot full of minivans.) There was just something about this
particular evening that pushed me towards expecting my AARP card. Soon.
Oprah always used to call this the “Ah ha!” moment. Mine felt more like a “Holy Poop!” moment.
But I think I’m
going to be ok with it. After all – who
did the band come running to when their ONE MARKER ran dry in the middle of
autographing posters? Yep! The old lady prepared like a freaking Boy
Scout to the rescue!
