“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” ~Mark Twain
First of all, quick story: I’m sitting in my office Friday afternoon when Peg pops in to tell me that she’s written something to guest post. Actually let me back up further than that to the morning when I was at the Opthamologist. A coworker texted me to tell me how ‘cute’ my mother looked that day. I was half blind due to dilated pupils so I was like, uh, sure. I got into work later and my mother stops by. There she is with skinny jeans tucked into boots and a scarf artfully draped around her neck in such a way that even Susan would be jealous. I poo-poo’d her away so I could do work. She left and I wondered where she got that sweater. Also, how could I go about taking that sweater off her hands. Such is the relationship between mother and daughter.
“OMG what are you doing!” (OMG what ru doin)
“Looking up the phone number you want. Why are you yelling?”
“Yeah, but you’re using a phonebook. Nobody uses a phone book anymore.”
So went the recent exchange between my 20-something daughter and me.
Give me a shout out if you’re a parent who never thought you’d be hearing these words directed at you: nobody (FILL IN THE BLANK) anymore.
Wait; nobody says “give me a shout out” anymore. What I meant to say was, give me a holla. Wait; don’t think that means the same as give me a shout out.
What I really meant to say was raise your hand if you feel me…
Enough of this drivel. It struck me like a lightning bolt—or a static shock when I touch the television after walking across the floor in my stocking feet—I might be a fogy.
But, when did it happen?
I’m cool. I’m not my mother’s 54. No babushka tied under my chin. I don’t wear men’s white socks with black lace-up walking shoes. I don’t even own a housecoat, let alone a duster.
I know how to text. I drive a Jeep. Damn it, I wear Uggs with my slim leg jeans tucked in. I am not a fogy.
Yes, I still have a land line. I prefer to look up words in my hardcover dictionary. I can do math in my head. I wear reading glasses, but only the coolest eyebobs* for me. I am not a fogy.
So I groan a little when I stand up after sitting for a long time. I wait a bit to make sure my knees are ready to move with the rest of me. I forget your name, but remember your face. Yes, that’s why I’ve taken to saying ‘hey, girl’ and ‘hi, handsome,’ but you never hear me calling anyone ‘hon’. And, occasionally the wrong word pops out of my mouth—but you know what I meant to say. Isn’t that why we have words like doohickey, whatchamacallit and thingamajig? All probably invented by someone over 50 …Oh yeah and my mind strays…and my hair is gray…and I start conversations with my kids’ friends with, “I remember when you were born…”
I’ve never followed anyone on Twitter, and I have no friends on Facebook because I’ve never been on Facebook. I no longer threaten to quit my job, but to retire. And Eileen Fisher is my favorite designer!
OMG, I really am a fogy! But I’ll be damned if I let someone call me old.
*For the record, I own eyebobs as well. And I got the idea from her. Peg 987, HB -45. Well played, mom. Well played.
11 Comments
This is awesome!
I hearby request a blog be started by Madre Pasa Nada. Si?
I hold the firm and unshakable belief that “old” begins at 70. I was relieved and delighted to turn 30, and frankly, found extreme youth to be terribly overrated. (Also, hardcover dictionaries are the best kind. Online dictionaries eliminate browsing, which is half the fun of a dictionary).
Of course, I am a 30-year old who does not see the point of Facebook, collects puns, is just learning to text, and favors a drink popularized at the end of the first World War (in other word, I am the OLDEST 30-YEAR OLD IN THE WORLD), so my opinion that 54 is a lovely age may not hold much weight with you (I own not a single Ugg).
You created an excellent daughter, by the way. Thanks for that.
Ha! You should totally hook up with my mom, for whom age is just a great excuse for saying dirty stuff and getting away with it (por ejemplo – http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/03/grandmas-little-helper.html)
Yeah.
(Heather, you are mad lucky to have such a mom
. And she, you.)
Great post, Heather’s mom!
Wait, HB, you introduced me to a woman at your office, but I assumed she was your sister. Who’s this?
Hi, Heather’s mom –
For what it’s worth, I’m in my 40′s, and I start conversations with Heather exactly the same way.
K.
Ha! Awesome guest post by your madre. Well played, indeed!
My mom doesn’t even own a computer. I don’t know how she functions.
This is great!
(remind me, when are you in Austin?)
My mother can barely navigate email, let alone post a blog. Trust me: no fogydom in evidence here.
It’s ok to be a fogy..I guess. The bagger at the grocery store looked at me and said: “You look like somebody’s mama”…I wasn’t quite sure what the hell that meant – was it in a good way like “you look nurturing” or “you look like a hot shit sandwich”..I wonder.