I’m not 40, I’m eighteen with 22 years experience. ~Author Unknown
“Girls!” I yelled. “Come here. Quick!”
My daughters pounded the hallway and appeared at my office door in record time.
“What?” they both exclaimed breathlessly.
“If I post in this spot on Facebook, who will see it?”
My youngest daughter, Katie, rolled her eyes. “You called me up here for that!” She stepped closer and looked. “I told you last time. It’ll go on your profile and then post to the newsfeed.”
Nicole, my other daughter, walked away, the click of a door suggesting she’d returned to her room.
But Katie hovered and scrutinized the computer screen. “And Mom? You’ve got twenty-five notifications! Don’t you ever check them?”
What my daughter didn’t understand is that for some people (like those of us who grew up before the word ‘personal computer’ ever existed), technology can be a bit challenging.
It never stops me from staying optimistic about trying things in the fast paced, quickly changing world around me. But no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to ignore that my roots date back to another era. Reminders surface without warning.
For instance, a few months ago, I was talking to someone who has young, elementary aged kids. During our conversation, I stated how an office I used to work in could be like a regular “Peyton Place.”
“Peyton Place? Is that the new movie coming out this weekend?” she asked, quite seriously.
That’s when it occurred to me I was five years old when it was my mother’s favorite TV program.
Another day I sent a text message to my daughter in front of a friend. My friend’s mouth dropped open. “You know how to text?” she said. “You’re my hero!”
A subtle reminder my friends are not twenty years old…nor am I.
And even the euphoria I’d felt when we made the decision to buy new kitchen cabinets didn’t come without a nagging reminder that I was no longer a young woman. After a year of laying the groundwork for my husband on why I absolutely needed a red 1965 mustang (the car I learned to drive on some thirty plus years earlier), he suggested I make a choice: the car or new cabinets. Without wavering, I chose the cabinets. I’ve told my friends if I ask for a vacuum cleaner for my next birthday, just shoot me.
I really do embrace my inner-aging goddess. I accept that this aging-thing, which plows towards me like the Giant’s offensive line after the kickoff, is inevitable. But I still feel eighteen inside and I never want lose what that feels like, either.
And I know that even though some of my teenage daughter’s friends might describe me as ‘awesome’ (so I’ve been told), I will always be someone who watched the ‘live’ moon landing on television and not someone who thinks that it’s merely an image created by MTV.