You gather around the radio on Saturday night to listen to "Prairie Home Companion".
And dress for it.
Everyone you meet you've met before.
The list of food and beverages you can ingest without doing serious harm to your body and mind is getting smaller and blander.
Never shocked, seldom surprised when you learn about the death of contemporaries.
Almost every fantasy is nipped in the bud with the admonition, "That ship has sailed."
I've never been ashamed of my age. Of course when I was a little girl I wanted to be a big girl; and when I was a teenager I wished I was old enough for some of the men who were buying me drinks, but ask me how old I am and I'll tell you the age I will be once I've reached my birthday milestone for that calendar year.
Except for now having sat in class for 2 semesters with 19, 20, 25 year olds. Once again for the first time I'm in an environment where I'm simultaneously conspicuous and resoundingly invisible as an almost 60 year African-American woman taking a Calculus class. I can see it from their POV: She's almost dead; what's she doing here? In some ways it's the Same 'Ol Same 'Ol -- girls good in math, African-Americans good in math, now it's competitive old hags doing math -- cognitive dissonance personified.
So, when one of my fellow students and I were chatting before class one day comparing notes about when either of us will be done I pulled my punches when I calculated out loud that I'd be about (cough) sixty-blah blah blah by the time I got my degree. What a coward, I thought instantly. All because I overheard a 19 year old ask a guy with a monk's tonsure how old he was and he said 36 and she gasped. (You would have thought he farted in the elevator.) I said to myself, they will not turn around and ask me. They will not dare. And they didn't. Not to protect my sensibilities, mind you, but because even for the Facebook generation it would be TMI to know that that were taking a class with a 57 years old. I mean that's like going bar hopping with your grandma. Ewwwwwwwwwwww ... One more class and I get to play with kids more my own age. Or so I've been led to believe.
And dress for it.
Everyone you meet you've met before.
The list of food and beverages you can ingest without doing serious harm to your body and mind is getting smaller and blander.
Never shocked, seldom surprised when you learn about the death of contemporaries.
Almost every fantasy is nipped in the bud with the admonition, "That ship has sailed."
I've never been ashamed of my age. Of course when I was a little girl I wanted to be a big girl; and when I was a teenager I wished I was old enough for some of the men who were buying me drinks, but ask me how old I am and I'll tell you the age I will be once I've reached my birthday milestone for that calendar year.
Except for now having sat in class for 2 semesters with 19, 20, 25 year olds. Once again for the first time I'm in an environment where I'm simultaneously conspicuous and resoundingly invisible as an almost 60 year African-American woman taking a Calculus class. I can see it from their POV: She's almost dead; what's she doing here? In some ways it's the Same 'Ol Same 'Ol -- girls good in math, African-Americans good in math, now it's competitive old hags doing math -- cognitive dissonance personified.
So, when one of my fellow students and I were chatting before class one day comparing notes about when either of us will be done I pulled my punches when I calculated out loud that I'd be about (cough) sixty-blah blah blah by the time I got my degree. What a coward, I thought instantly. All because I overheard a 19 year old ask a guy with a monk's tonsure how old he was and he said 36 and she gasped. (You would have thought he farted in the elevator.) I said to myself, they will not turn around and ask me. They will not dare. And they didn't. Not to protect my sensibilities, mind you, but because even for the Facebook generation it would be TMI to know that that were taking a class with a 57 years old. I mean that's like going bar hopping with your grandma. Ewwwwwwwwwwww ... One more class and I get to play with kids more my own age. Or so I've been led to believe.
No comments:
Post a Comment