I recently met up with a group of friends for lunch at a favorite restaurant. As I sat down, I realized the conversation was about annoying health issues and aches and pains, so I enthusiastically joined in.
But then I stopped. Because I realized we sounded like every movie cliche of old ladies lunching, while griping about their sore knees, arthritic fingers, hip joints or how they couldn’t sleep last night.
This was horrifying, because I’m actually not an old lady. I just play one on TV.
The government thinks I’m old enough to get Medicare and I’m not going to disabuse them of this notion, but the truth is that I’m actually only 27 years old, and I intend to stay that way forever.
My hairdresser helps me with this, because when my hair grew back in after I had chemotherapy a few years ago, it was an inexplicable shade of gray that I’d never seen before in my entire life. I soon went to the hair salon and had my hair dyed back to its “real” color, which which has been a nice shiny copper for 40 years or so. I felt so much better afterward.
I just refuse to sit around and complain about my health issues, so I quickly changed the subject at lunch. Who wants to go to a dance party this weekend? That was a much better conversational topic for my normally lively crowd. We may not be able to dance with as much stamina as when we were younger, but at least we can get up there and try.
I have a friend who likes to say that “Kids keep you young,” and that is absolutely true. You learn all the acronyms for texting, such as “wya,” also known as “Where you at?” And “omw” which means “On my way!”
Of course, I have added a few of my own, such as “fda,” aka “Fell down again.” And “wdiwitk” which is “Why did I walk into the kitchen?”
Kids also help you with popular culture, by sharing their music with you. Yes, it’s mostly wretched, but once in a great while there will be a song that’s actually not autotuned. Or one that doesn’t deal primarily with (obscenity deleted) in a dance club or how much someone likes big rear ends.
I laugh every time I hear Macklemore’s song “Thrift Shop,” about thrifting as a verb, although I used to think popping tags was some sort of drug ritual.
Now that I have grandchildren, (yes, 27 year olds can have grandkids, what’s your point?) I will have to start watching what I say again. After all, kids repeat everything.
They never hear you when you tell them to put their shoes in the closet, but they’ll hear you just fine from two blocks away when you whisper to your friend that you saw the neighbor being carted off in a cop car that morning, in handcuffs.
I went up to visit Curly Girl for the weekend at her new home in Washington state, near the Canadian border, and enjoyed seeing how my first grandchild, Floyd, is growing up every day.
He just turned 3, and I brought him a Mr. Potato Head, because I loved mine when I was a girl. As I expected, he was the hit of the season, and we spent many fine hours assembling and disassembling his body parts.
His 15-month-old little sister, Mabel, decided that she wanted to play with it too, and things got rather testy for awhile over who was in charge of the tater and his accessories. Obviously I need to get one for the girl child now as well.
Next time I’m up there, it might be time to buy them a Candyland game and see if they’re old enough to play yet. My friends love board games, especially Scrabble, but it’s too much work for my slowpoke brain.
When I was younger, I loved doing word puzzles, but now I consider my job one big daily word puzzle and it satisfies my every need for mental stimulation.
That’s why Candyland is just perfect for both the young and old, because you don’t need any words to play it.
They should offer a “senior edition.” Heck, I’d buy it. Unless it was filled with sore knees, arthritis and bad hips. I’m not going there again.