Too Old

I’m too old. This realization came to me recently. Oh, I feel good. I even think I look pretty good. But, clearly I’m too old.

I’m too old to think it’s fashionable to have my underwear show. I’m from the generation that worked hard to make sure that no one saw our bra straps or panties. So, seeing women walk around wearing standard bras underneath shirts with spaghetti straps strikes me as slightly insane. Don’t get me started on young men and women who wear their pants low enough or loose enough that I can tell what type and color they’re wearing.

I’m too old to understand holding an entire text conversation with someone while sitting with people. I love my cell phone. I text frequently (though, never while driving). I’ll sometimes text back and forth to our son while The Furry Guy and I are eating out. When I’m with people, though, I generally engage in verbal conversation. I realize that some of the people I see are actually texting one another, so they aren’t really being rude. Still, I don’t get it. Clearly I’m too old.

I’m too old to be bored with everything. Maybe that’s not too old. Maybe that’s not sophisticated enough. Thinking back, I realize that the über-sophisticated, socially elite people have always projected a kind of bored demeanor.

So, I’m old and unsophisticated. That means that if you see me you won’t know what color my underwear is, you’ll have my undivided attention (even if, as I’ve been told recently, I talk too much), and I’ll be excited about whatever you’re doing. I can live with that.


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