I’m Not Old

I’m not old. No, really, I’m not.
Recently, I have started telling myself that I’m not old; thinking if I say it enough I will begin to believe it. So far, it hasn’t worked. Suddenly, for me, old age is not something over the hill anymore, it’s just around the corner and I’m wanting to head in the other direction. I don’t want to become my mother. I don’t want to have blue hair. I don’t want to drive slow and need to sit in a car seat to see over the steering wheel. Yet, things keep happening to me that make me feel as though it’s time to move to Florida and start swilling Metimucil. Just the other day, I was looking at all these cute clothes and realized that none of them would look cute on me. Not anymore, anyway. They are designed for women who don’t have wrinkly knees and whose stomach is actually smaller than their hips. That made me feel old. Then last night, my dear friend Katy and I were at a restaurant drinking a glass of wine lamenting that—yes, indeed, we were there for the early bird special. But such a deal—salad, entrée, dessert and a glass of wine for $20! Even with the cost savings, it was hard to forget the fact that we were eating dinner about the time we used to pick our kids up after school. I could feel my roots showing before we ordered dessert. Then, there’s the picture from last weekend’s football game. My sweet Sarah bought a new digital camera: one of those fabulous little Canon Powershots.
“Mom, let’s take a profile picture together.”
“OK,” I said, “I’m ready.”

Shutter snapped. Then a quick look at the back of the camera. Hilarious laughter ensued. “Mom. What are you doing in the picture?”

profileblog

“I thought you wanted a profile picture,” I said.
“Mom. I meant a profile picture. You know for Facebook.”
Enough said. I am no longer young and cool enough to realize the current cultural definition of a profile picture.
I’m changing my screen name to “Whistler’s Mother.”

R Clark

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