November 27, 2012

November 27, 2012

Old Age is Wasted on the Old

Though I get invitations to subscribe to a lot of magazines (I’m a bit of a magazine whore), none has made me happier than the one I got last week:

In case you can’t tell, the Smithsonian wants to give me a senior membership. As in, “You seem to be the sort of person who lunches at 11, dines at 5, and wishes everyone would turn down their godforsaken music. Please spend $10 of your limited income on our magazine.”

To quote a show all the young people watch (but I don't): Bazinga!

Despite my outward appearance, I’m pretty sure I’m actually in my mid- to late-sixties. I imagine this is similar* to how some people feel that they’re a different gender than they appear to be. My contemporaries want to party hard, drink until they pass out, and get Elvish tattoos. I prefer to use coupons at restaurants and wear sensible shoes. Winning!

The Smithsonian obviously has some means of detecting this, perhaps by reviewing my credit card statements. My charges are roughly 60% food, 20% travel, and 20% sundries. And by “sundries,” I mean “clothes and entertainment and whatnot.” The fact that I even use the term “sundries” is yet another point to my argument.

 They say that having kids keeps you young, so perhaps if I’d kept up with my college contemporaries I’d feel 29. Many of my classmates already have three or four kids, so I assume they still feel young enough to live free and die hard. (Except they have kids, so their days are filled with poop. Irony!) My stories of the orchestra concert I went to last week or the difficulty of exchanging international currency don’t fly to the tops of their Facebook timelines, I bet. What I need is a Facebook for old people, which I guess is called “talking.” Sigh.

It’s gotten to the point that TheBoy and I hope that the crowds at our activities will be mostly or exclusively senior citizens. They’re well-behaved, keep to themselves, and don’t make a fuss unless it’s to remind you that they beat the freaking Nazis and all. This is why they’re the Greatest Generation, you guys.

Though my childless only-child status guarantees that I shall never be someone’s cranky grandma or great-aunt, I am ready willing and able to be everyone’s cranky neighbor. Keep your dirty hands of my Smithsonian magazine, okay? And pull up your pants!

* Or not at all similar. No idea, really. I thought I would try empathy, but I don’t know how to do it.

0 Fish in a Sea of Diet Coke: