It’s a good thing I’m young at heart, because the rest of this temple is vintage.
OK boomer, what’s up now? Thanks for asking, here’s the thing.
Our dear friend Terry coined the phrase – my new “old thing” referring to the latest indignities experienced as a 50ish woman.
Case in point. Bringing back words from the bowels of your brain is an exasperating “old thing.” Watching my pals communicate is entertaining AF – like a jazz singer and a mime had a baby – all the finger snapping and arm waving. The exuberant high-fives after cracking the code makes it worth the wait.
The latest “old thing?” Drop whatever on the floor, pick it up, drop it again, fuckity fuck. For some unfathomable reason your fingers only graze on the first go – eerily similar to the unattainable prize in an arcade crane machine. Perhaps we forget, in those microseconds bending down, what we’re supposed to be doing.
This “old thing” frequently finds herself standing dumbstruck in a room pondering my purpose. Thankfully, technology showers me with praise for accomplishing my 10,000 steps. The damned fitbit doesn’t need to know that 8,754 of those steps were futile wanderings.
Vision is a challenge that demeans both men and women. A unisex “old thing.” Many fine restaurants now provide discreet portable table lights to protect their fancy schmancy lighting from errant smartphone beams.
Like many of us, my vision altered overnight. After examining a pill bottle, I stupidly asked the twelve-year-old pharmacist, “When did they make the font smaller?” I truly believed the print was tinier than the day before. The pity in her eyes was diagnostic. I was instantly old.
Could it be? We’ve already outlived our warranty? I hate to think it’s a (meno)pauseability!
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