Yeah, so I haven’t posted in a while. You figured that out, right? I guess the whole adoption fiasco, and subsequent adoption scam of earlier this summer rendered me somewhat humorless. I hope to get back to semi-regular postings. Because if there’s anything your life is lacking, it’s random musings from me. You’re welcome.
Post of the day: I’m old. I just figured this out over the weekend. It came as a huge shock to me, so I’ll try to explain how this horrible realization finally dawned.
One word: Chaperone. The fact that anyone would trust me with their precious offspring just astonishes me, but as I go thru my “old” list, it’s beginning to occur to me that I’m not as young and impulsively fun as brain tells me I am. For example, the hubby and I spent 3 days at Youth Conference this past weekend, and came home much older, much wearier, and possibly dumber than when we left. (Top five vocab words of 2010: “Uhhh,” “Totally,” “Like,” “Duh,” and “Sick.”)
*Sidebar: The top five vocab words of 1989: "Uhhh," "Totally," "Like," "Duh," and "Gnarly."
When I say Youth Conference, think 830 kids, 3 dorm buildings, 2 dances, and lethal amounts of Axe Body Spray. Hubs and I did NOT get to room together, and in fact, were not even housed in the same building. Ask him sometime about his adventures with his roommate “Rudy.”
I have discovered that even though I don’t have kids, I weirdly enough have no issue with bossing other people’s kids around. Want to try to sneak into the boys dorm? Yeah, no way. (Old). Sticking angry head outside of door to yell at random girl running down halls at 3:30am? (Old). Not to mention, sans contacts and blind as a mouse? (Blind AND Old). Keep in mind, these kids were born in the mid 90’s. I’ve got shoes older than that. CUTE SHOES. Or are they cute? I’m having shoe-doubt now, which has never happened before. Who am I trying to kid? Maybe I should just start shopping for orthopedic shoes at the Naturalizer...
Remember the old days when a song would come on, fast or slow, and you would stand awkwardly around waiting to be asked, pretending you were super engrossed in convo with your friends, and then thank your lucky wall-flower stars when you finally DID get asked? Yeah, they don’t do that anymore. The slow songs, maybe. And there's no hard and fast rule anymore about who does the asking- Fast songs are danced in a big glob out in the middle of the dance floor, and there are no dance moves. Just jumping up and down to the beat. Seriously. (Old).
And finally, the worst realization concerning my “oldness.” I’ve coasted gently into the years of having to consider “age appropriateness” when purchasing clothing. I’ve seen some adorable outfits that would just get me talked about by other harpies my age. Take for instance those cute cutoff leggings that the girls wear under skirts. It’s with a twinge of sadness that I admit I shouldn’t even attempt that look.
So there you have it, my essay on oldness. I’ve only scratched the surface, but I don’t have the heart to go on. (may need a nap now..) Sure, it’s mostly a state of mind. That’s why next time I’ll post all the things that still make me young and immature.