It’s come to my attention that I am the oldest person that I know. The first event that led to this realization occurred last week when I was driving and couldn’t figure out what glowing LED light had burnt out that was causing my car to look so dark. Then I realized that my electrical system was in good working order – I simply hadn’t driven at night-time in so long I forgot what the inside of the car looked like in the dark. Hadn’t even been in a car at night in months.
Then I looked back to the preceding week. I had spent the weekend crocheting a baby blanket (with a decorative edge – I know the fancy stitches). I had done a load of laundry comprised entirely of leggings and over-sized sweaters, and absolutely nothing else. I own more than one pair of six-inch stilettos and all I wear is brightly colored knee-high socks. I had missed a text message from a friend asking me to go to a bar because I had fallen asleep before she sent it. At 8 p.m. It was not difficult to determine that I am living the life of someone almost four times my age. And a particularly boring and introverted octogenarian at that.
The most disturbing part of this whole scenario, that is my life, is that it’s been difficult to muster up any real indignation at this state of affairs. I genuinely like spending some quality time with my nine pillows of an evening, in comfortable and unattractive outfits. But it’s doing nothing for my social life, and it’s going to be really tricky to revert back to my concert-hopping, tight dress wearing, giggles at everything alter ego when I really am eighty, and look like I should be at home in a shmata, minding an elderly menagerie.
In an effort to shake things up I have made an effort of late to leave my house for purely recreational reasons, and wear some of those dresses taking up real estate in my closet. And it turns out I’m perfectly capable of having fun. I actually really like it. But I’m still going to crochet baby blankets. And spend some Saturday nights in an enormous jumper marathoning cinematic interpretations of YA series’. I’m entirely comfortable with my own company, and sometimes I’m my favorite person to spend time with. We like all the same things.
Might work on that bedtime though.