I sent my mother off to WE Fest last night. I instructed her to be careful, warning that people die there every year. I also requested she not take drinks from strangers — an act that’s right up her alley.
They peeled off, headed for the country fest and I smiled. Me, advising my mother, to be careful. Similar to Toby Keith song, “I should have been a cowboy,” I’m feeling like I should have been a grandma.
What other 20-something gets a hoot out of knitting, loves baking pies with homemade crust, and has formed a club to play cards the same night each week?
No, I’m not feeling old. I’m nowhere near retirement, I don’t attend SilverSneakers and I haven’t been looking into what an AARP membership can do for me. I haven’t resorted to dentures, and while my knees still hurt from the marathon I ran in May, my hips still seem to be holding up okay.
But it occurred to me the other week, when sending a few songs to a wise-crack co-worker of mine, that I think I was born in the wrong decade. Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” – is it not a classic? And, because she’s going to see her family in September, the Happenings’ “I’ll See You in September.”
Hey, it seemed pertinent.
She had never heard it.
“You listen to older music than my parents,” she remarked. There it was again – one more person pointing to the fact that I’m a matured woman in a young person’s body.
I wasn’t offended. This was not the first time I had been called a grandma. When I turned down an evening of “clubbing it up” to go bowling, I was called a grandma. When I showed up to a potluck with the best molasses cookies anyone has ever tasted, I was called a grandma.
I don’t deny that performing a single download on my Mac is a struggle, or that I have very little interest in getting a smart phone. In fact, I’ve debated going back in time to a landline and would probably have a rotary phone, just for the hell of it. Quiz me on anything pop culture – I promise I won’t know a single answer. The funny thing is, it upsets the people around me much more than it upsets me.
And now, as I seriously consider purchasing a Buick Regal, people are laughing directly to my face and have been calling me “Grandma Stoneburner”. The odd thing is, I think it fits me well. Deal with it, you little rascals!
Bye bye, so long, farewell….
Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.