Excerpt: Age is Just a Number (Vol II)
November 8th 2006 14:43
Thursday, November 1, 2006,
PART XVI: ON THE SUBJECT OF AGE
I never thought I’d be one of those twenty-five … again folk because I’m so grateful to be here, plus I’m so used to folk saying, “You have a twenty-one-year-old daughter? Stop playing!” that I got caught out there when it happened:
There I was minding my own business standing outside of the neighborhood Wal*Mart when the words I thought I’d never hear were spoken, “Excuse me ma’am?”
Ensconced in the surety that I wasn’t the one being addressed, I kept on searching, my eyes peeled for the “I heart Jesus” license plate that would signal the approach of my brother-in-law’s van when the words came again, “Ma’am, ahem, excuse me ma’am?”
Annoyed now that whoever was being addressed was being so rude, I whipped my head around to give that person the evil eye, when directly in my line of vision was a teenager looking hopefully at … me!
I looked past him, sure that he needed my help to gain the attention of said ma’am, but alas there was no one close enough to us to whom he could have been referring but … me!
Pushing the ramifications of that to the back of my mind I focused on the stocky teenager as I asked, “Sorry, were you addressing me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He answered. “Do you know what time the next whirly bird (our local bus) will be coming?”
After a quick glance at my watch, I pointed to the left and said, “The next bus will be by in fifteen minutes, but you’re standing in the wrong spot, the bus stop was recently moved you need to go down there, where all the other people are standing.” And in full parental mode I added, “Do you have exact change for the bus? It’s fifty cents to ride one way and two dollars if you need to transfer.”
“Thanks, ma’am, I’m good.” He said then jogged on down to where the other bus riders were lined up.
Now that he was gone, I could safely pull out that word and examine it. In less than five minutes, I’d been addressed as Ma’am four times … count it … four times. Yes, I know there are weightier issues, the upcoming elections, the plight of the poor, Jesus’ return – I get that but you see Ma’am just isn’t me.
I’m the cool parent, the one my daughter’s friends wanted to hang with. The one who had so much stamina she could dance all the teens under the table, show them how to do round offs, cartwheels or flips without batting an eye. Attend dance classes with teens and hit that split with nary a problem.
Ma’am is some overweight, forty-something woman, who’s not down with the slang of the day, has no clue as to the latest clothing or hairdo trends, wears shoes for comfort instead of to enhance the shape of her legs and doesn’t care if she’s wearing make-up or not.
I looked down at myself, cool boots—check, bootleg cut jeans—check, passed my hand through my locs—check, looked at my coat—okay x, licked my unvarnished lips—okay x … again, slang meter—check, weight—okay x, age—okay x again.
So by my own meter, created when I was ooooh about his age, I’d unknowingly metamorphosed into “Ma’am!”
What can I do to reverse that? When did it happen? Was it when I moved from New York to Pennsylvania? In my attempt to fit in had I compromised on my citified edginess?
I mean, just three years ago, I was the famous “Divine” of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating fame. Younguns were coming out of my ears… well not sixteen year-olds … (don’t wanna get reported for child abuse … LOL) but twenty was not at all a stretch. Of course I verbally spanked them and sent them back to their mamas, but still … there was no “ma’am” on the horizon.
Is this what turning forty is about? If so … who do I have to annoy, bribe or pay to get off this rollercoaster to the land of decline?
Seriously though, I am thankful for every year that I’m here, for at fourteen with the onset of bipolar disorder I was ready to end it all, but God intervened. However, how do I deal with the in-between stage in which I now find myself?
To hear me tell it, I’m still a hip, hip happening fool, however, when I use slang in her presence, my daughter always says to me, “Umm, mom … please don’t do that again.” Or when I attempt to go exercise in exercise clothes (brilliant blue spandex with a sweat shirt no less) she bars the door and asks, “You’re not going outside like that, are you?” When did spandex (exercise clothing) become déclassé?
Well, if this is what turning forty-one has in store for me ... I'd rather reminisce a bit more.
So where was I?
Oh yes, I believe I stopped at "Is That a Typo?"
For those of you who haven't read Volume I, to get up to speed, purchase is available at Amazon.com, bn.com and many other online venues as well as by request at your local bookstore, the ISBN is 0-9778103-0-5 or for the Internet junkies like me, there’s also an eBook available at http://ageisjustanumber.googlepages.com.
Now for those of you who did read the book and would just like a refresher, here's where we ended:
read more...
PART XVI: ON THE SUBJECT OF AGE
I never thought I’d be one of those twenty-five … again folk because I’m so grateful to be here, plus I’m so used to folk saying, “You have a twenty-one-year-old daughter? Stop playing!” that I got caught out there when it happened:
There I was minding my own business standing outside of the neighborhood Wal*Mart when the words I thought I’d never hear were spoken, “Excuse me ma’am?”
Ensconced in the surety that I wasn’t the one being addressed, I kept on searching, my eyes peeled for the “I heart Jesus” license plate that would signal the approach of my brother-in-law’s van when the words came again, “Ma’am, ahem, excuse me ma’am?”
Annoyed now that whoever was being addressed was being so rude, I whipped my head around to give that person the evil eye, when directly in my line of vision was a teenager looking hopefully at … me!
I looked past him, sure that he needed my help to gain the attention of said ma’am, but alas there was no one close enough to us to whom he could have been referring but … me!
Pushing the ramifications of that to the back of my mind I focused on the stocky teenager as I asked, “Sorry, were you addressing me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He answered. “Do you know what time the next whirly bird (our local bus) will be coming?”
After a quick glance at my watch, I pointed to the left and said, “The next bus will be by in fifteen minutes, but you’re standing in the wrong spot, the bus stop was recently moved you need to go down there, where all the other people are standing.” And in full parental mode I added, “Do you have exact change for the bus? It’s fifty cents to ride one way and two dollars if you need to transfer.”
“Thanks, ma’am, I’m good.” He said then jogged on down to where the other bus riders were lined up.
Now that he was gone, I could safely pull out that word and examine it. In less than five minutes, I’d been addressed as Ma’am four times … count it … four times. Yes, I know there are weightier issues, the upcoming elections, the plight of the poor, Jesus’ return – I get that but you see Ma’am just isn’t me.
I’m the cool parent, the one my daughter’s friends wanted to hang with. The one who had so much stamina she could dance all the teens under the table, show them how to do round offs, cartwheels or flips without batting an eye. Attend dance classes with teens and hit that split with nary a problem.
Ma’am is some overweight, forty-something woman, who’s not down with the slang of the day, has no clue as to the latest clothing or hairdo trends, wears shoes for comfort instead of to enhance the shape of her legs and doesn’t care if she’s wearing make-up or not.
I looked down at myself, cool boots—check, bootleg cut jeans—check, passed my hand through my locs—check, looked at my coat—okay x, licked my unvarnished lips—okay x … again, slang meter—check, weight—okay x, age—okay x again.
So by my own meter, created when I was ooooh about his age, I’d unknowingly metamorphosed into “Ma’am!”
What can I do to reverse that? When did it happen? Was it when I moved from New York to Pennsylvania? In my attempt to fit in had I compromised on my citified edginess?
I mean, just three years ago, I was the famous “Divine” of Age is Just a Number: Adventures in Online Dating fame. Younguns were coming out of my ears… well not sixteen year-olds … (don’t wanna get reported for child abuse … LOL) but twenty was not at all a stretch. Of course I verbally spanked them and sent them back to their mamas, but still … there was no “ma’am” on the horizon.
Is this what turning forty is about? If so … who do I have to annoy, bribe or pay to get off this rollercoaster to the land of decline?
Seriously though, I am thankful for every year that I’m here, for at fourteen with the onset of bipolar disorder I was ready to end it all, but God intervened. However, how do I deal with the in-between stage in which I now find myself?
To hear me tell it, I’m still a hip, hip happening fool, however, when I use slang in her presence, my daughter always says to me, “Umm, mom … please don’t do that again.” Or when I attempt to go exercise in exercise clothes (brilliant blue spandex with a sweat shirt no less) she bars the door and asks, “You’re not going outside like that, are you?” When did spandex (exercise clothing) become déclassé?
Well, if this is what turning forty-one has in store for me ... I'd rather reminisce a bit more.
So where was I?
Oh yes, I believe I stopped at "Is That a Typo?"
For those of you who haven't read Volume I, to get up to speed, purchase is available at Amazon.com, bn.com and many other online venues as well as by request at your local bookstore, the ISBN is 0-9778103-0-5 or for the Internet junkies like me, there’s also an eBook available at http://ageisjustanumber.googlepages.com.
Now for those of you who did read the book and would just like a refresher, here's where we ended:
read more...
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