The “Older” Adult

 

Before I even looked at him I could tell by his joyously snarky tone the joke would be at my expense.

Again.

Who is raising this “disrespectful, mouthy” teenager anyway?  

My sixteen year old son slyly smiled as he held the Whitley County Fact Book in his hands.  “How old are you again, mom?”

I hate it when he asks me questions to which he already knows the answers!

For those who are unaware of the importance of the Whitley County Fact Book, please allow me to share.  The Whitley County Fact Book is distributed by our local Columbia City newspaper.  It is produced annually and very rarely does any of the information change.  This book lets one know the names and sizes of lakes in our area. It has a section for “famous” people from Whitley County.  (Frankly, that section is pretty small.) And it also includes current, up-to-date statistics about our local population.

This is the portion of the Fact Book which gleefully brings way too much happiness to my son.  “How old are you again, mom?”

“I’m forty-seven and a half, Cam.  You already know that.” Then he plays this little game where he pretends to carefully peruse and study the Fact Book, but the smart aleck kid already knows exactly what he’s looking for and what he’s going to say.

“Hmmmm.  According to the Whitley County Fact Book it says here that you are considered an ‘Older Adult,’ mom.  And do you know how many categories are after ‘Older Adult,’ mom?  Just one! ‘Older.’ The next time you move up a category you will move to ‘Older!’  Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. And then you will be in the oldest age group in the county!”

Doesn’t that kid have some stupid YouTube video to watch instead of harassing the woman who gave birth to him?

Okay, so I desperately color my hair to fool no one, but I am now an older adult.  You want more proof than the fake blonde hair? Sure! I’ll give it to you!

  • I’m certainly not wearing these glasses full time now because I think they make me look more fashionable!
  • That creak you hear when I stand up — it wasn’t my knee hitting the table.  It was just my knee.
  • On many summer nights as I try to sleep, I am inundated with folks in the country setting off their own personal firecrackers.  My husband and I both lay there and harumph. We talk about how the firework fanatics might as well take a bunch of twenty dollar bills and light them on fire.  “They’re just wasting their money!” We talk about how tired we are and how at 5 a.m. the next morning when we need to be up and at ‘em we’d like to go set off our own firework display and see how they like it when they’re trying to sleep!
  • My son literally listens to much of the same music that was popular when I was his age.  And when we are together in the car I often reach the point where I say, “Please turn that down!  I can’t take it anymore!” Who knew Billy Joel and Elton John were that loud anyway?
  • And basically, any time I need to do anything with technology, I must ask my children for help.  I may have sat and struggled with something for thirty minutes and then one of my teenagers flies over, pushes two buttons, and accomplishes what I couldn’t.  

So yes.  Maybe there is only one age bracket in the Whitley County Fact Book which separates me from “Older Adult” and death.  And by golly, if I’m going to be assigned the label, I might as well live up to it a bit, so I’ll cut this short.  It’s nearly 4:30 in the afternoon and it’s almost time for dinner!

Until next week, Lord willing, when I talk about not really wanting to surrender all.