On Being "Old"

Okay, yes.  I did, in fact, have all the windows in my truck rolled down the other day, and yes, there was 80s music blaring from my speakers.  And, um, yes, it is possible that I did, in fact, sing along, loudly to the aforementioned music ... and knew EVERY. SINGLE. WORD.


The 80s were not THAT long ago.


They weren't.

I mean, I am still 25 ... 22 on a good day.  That's like, what?

Oh crap!  I don't want to do the math.  It'll just be depressing, because, let's face it, as my sister would say, I am an old fart!

That was never made more clear to me than this week, when in an email to a conservation officer that comes to talk to our 4th graders, I was referred to as Ms. Murray.  I'd addressed him by his first name, and I had signed off the email with my first name, but he STILL referred to me as Ms. Murray in his reply.

Okay, yes.  He is 12 ... okay, maybe 15.  He does, after all, have a beard.  But still.  Ms. Murray ... that's like my mom.  It implies I have mature responsibilities like grocery shopping and bill paying and a mortgage and a car payment and ... oh never mind!  I have all those things.

And I suppose the fact that I lathered up not one but both knees with Ben Gay before I went out for my three miles this evening might have slightly hinted toward an advanced age, right?

I mean it certainly didn't exude HOT and SEXY, did it?

When did this happen?  When did I turn all mature, and, by the way, when did "my bad" become a passe' phrase (okay, yes, I might have used that in the email to the aforementioned 15 year old conservation officer ... all right!  Maybe he's 18.  He does have a beard after all)?


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