Yesterday I was driving down the road. There was a cute white jeep in front of me with a monogram plastered in the back window, a “Life is Good” bumper sticker, and a dream catcher hanging from the rear view mirror (DOESN’T SHE KNOW THAT’S DANGEROUS?!) A perky girl with a messy bun bigger that my toddler’s head was driving along, bouncing–why do they all bounce?! and singing along to some really loud pop music. She was texting at the red light and so sat there when it turned to green, when she finally noticed, she squealed tires and went 0 to 60 in 4 seconds.
I sat back in my champagne colored, family friendly SUV while John Mellencamp crooned to me and assessed the situation. She could be in college, I thought to myself. But possibly graduated. Ugh. She’s probably one of those “20-somethings”.
Hmph. Kids these days.
It legitimately took me 6 minutes, 2 more miles, and three sips of coffee to realize THAT I’M ONE OF THOSE 20-SOMETHINGS.
But let’s face the facts people, pay the piper, lay it on the line, put up or shut up: Hello, my name is Hunter, and I’m a crotchety old woman.
I submit Exhibit A to the court for identification: I say or think some version of “kids these days/young people these days/young punks/this generation” while rolling my eyes and sneering at least twice a week….a day.
Exhibit B: If I drink a soda after 6:00 p.m., I’ll be up all night.
Exhibit C: I say “soda.”
Exhibit D: I yell at the people shooting off fireworks after 10:00 when the Fourth of July WAS FOUR FREAKING DAYS AGO, because “DON’T WAKE UP MY BABY, TRICK.”
Exhibit E: I have to Google search hip words and phrases like “on fleek” and “basic”. I’m just still trying to make fetch happen, okay?
Exhibit F: I once called someone a “hooligan” and everybody knows you can’t say hooligan until you’re at least 40.
Exhibit G: My “squad” is a 2 1/2 year old, a nerdy doctor-to-be, and an overweight dog with uncontrollable flatulence that refuses to exercise.
Exhibit H: I wear a bathrobe while I sip my coffee and curl my hair. Not a silky, sexy bathrobe–like a thick, fleece, anything could be under here bathrobe.
Exhibit I: I fix tech issues by blowing in or hitting the broken article.
Exhibit J: I know how to make gravy.
Exhibit K: I see teenagers running around with shorts or sandals on and yell: “PUT ON SOME CLOTHES, YOU’RE GOING TO CATCH PNEUMONIA!!!”
Exhibit L: On Friday nights in high school, I’d hang out with my grandparents and their friends while they drank gin-and-tonics instead of with the rest of the 17-year olds in a field somewhere. I can mix a mean gin-and-tonic for any of you thirsty 70-year-olds out there.
Exhibit M: One time in college, I was in a car with friends, and they swerved on purpose to mess with me and I yelled “THIS IS HOW YOUNG PEOPLE HAVE WRECKS.” They all looked at me like the ghost of Great Aunt Sally had entered the vehicle.
Exhibit N: I yell at the tv. A lot.
OKAY. You get the picture.
I’m an 80-year-old white man that yells at the kids to get off his lawn and tells the Democrats they’re running the country into the ground.
We could go at this all day, but we’re eventually going to run out of letters.
AF. (<<—Googled it.)
Growing up it was cute to be considered an “old soul”, I was just mature beyond my years. Now I’m just a boring has been that likes bras with wide straps and hot tea, that falls asleep with her heating pad on her feet. So I see these viral articles targeting “20-somethings” and yelling that the time is now and blah blah blah, and I read them and nothing applies to me and I’m just like: um. okay, I must not be a “20-something”.
But I’m not really into playing Bingo every Thursday night, either.
So where does that leave me?
Well… I’ve decided that acceptance is key, here. No need fighting a losing battle.
Da nile isn’t just a river in Egypt, honey child. (wut.)
And honestly, I’m probably too old and crotchety to give a rat’s……
Shout out to my fellow oldies, but goodies. May we always be in bed by 10 and thank God for control tops.
Love and Other Drugs,
E. Hunter W.