I’ve been saying things lately that make me feel old.
They do more than make me feel old actually.
The fact that I say them is enough to qualify me.
Not five minutes ago, these very words came out of my mouth: “I’m not running a diner here.”
I said it response to Kennedy when she asked if her and her overnight guest could have ice cream. At nearly 10:00. As in PM. I mean, I don’t know about your house, but around here the kitchen is absolutely closed at 9. Period.
And earlier today I swear I heard myself telling Cassidy something to the effect of, “that’s what happens when you make bad behavioral choices.”
That one didn’t make me sound old so much as just really geeky.
And it’s not just the things I say. That which I do is also proof.
I’ve taken to shaking my head in disapproval when I see kids on roller skate shoes in the stores. Or with saggy pants. Or two-toned hair.
Those freaky piercings in which they insert random wooden hexagons or screws or whatever the heck they are thoroughly disgust me. As do skinny jeans on otherwise respectable young men.
I refer to the majority of Torri’s iPod playlist as noise (with the obvious exception of her Disney selections, which I highly approve). And I honestly can’t remember the last time I even casually flipped to MTV.
The other day Jeff was telling Torri that I liked the book she’d recommended so much that I’d kept him up really late because I wouldn’t turn the lights off until I’d finished just one more chapter.
How late? She hedged.
Like, 11:30.
11:30? Wow. Move over Farrah and Michael, we’re talking newsworthy here.
See what I mean? Old.
And I used to be so cool.
Next thing you know I’ll be griping about the bus-stop kids walking through the yard.
Or better yet. Talking Jeff into hiding one of those little zapper do-dads at the perimeter so they get a little juice pumped into ‘em if they opt for the shortcut.
Yeah. It’s official.
Send Depends.
