Sometime over the course of the last year, I started forgetting how old I am. Genuinely, positively, absolutely forgetting. I've never been particularly bothered about growing older, but I never imagined that I'd start forgetting the actual number at such an early age.
Whatever the number is, I am (as Preston wisely once described me) on the outer fringes of youth. I have merely a vague knowledge of what the young kids these days listen to or watch. And I impatiently--nay, desperately!--await the day when skinny and/or brightly colored jeans are no longer fashionable, since they look terrible on me. Let's face it. I'm out of touch.
Since I'm already an old woman at heart, I decided to fill some of my spare time by volunteering at the Shakespeare Theater Company in DC. I'd envisioned being an usher for a local theater company much later in life, but since my memory is clearly slipping already, I figured should start acting my internal age now.
As my fellow new ushers and I sat contemplating theater layouts and the correct protocol for dealing with latecomers the other day, we heard an unlikely sound coming from across the street: screaming. Specifically, teenage girl screaming, the likes of which mine ears had not heard for many years. We looked at each other uncomfortably, unsure of how to reconcile what we were hearing with our surroundings. After all, a healthy majority of us were sporting awesome grey hairdos and orthopedic shoes.
Then, a small voice of knowledge chimed in: "there's a Justin Bieber concert happening across the street." We chuckled, sighed, and resumed studying our theater maps in silence.
Hey, I was a teenager once--I have enough 'N Sync songs on my iPod to prove it.
But I have embraced my old side. I am one of them.
Whatever the number is, I am (as Preston wisely once described me) on the outer fringes of youth. I have merely a vague knowledge of what the young kids these days listen to or watch. And I impatiently--nay, desperately!--await the day when skinny and/or brightly colored jeans are no longer fashionable, since they look terrible on me. Let's face it. I'm out of touch.
Since I'm already an old woman at heart, I decided to fill some of my spare time by volunteering at the Shakespeare Theater Company in DC. I'd envisioned being an usher for a local theater company much later in life, but since my memory is clearly slipping already, I figured should start acting my internal age now.
As my fellow new ushers and I sat contemplating theater layouts and the correct protocol for dealing with latecomers the other day, we heard an unlikely sound coming from across the street: screaming. Specifically, teenage girl screaming, the likes of which mine ears had not heard for many years. We looked at each other uncomfortably, unsure of how to reconcile what we were hearing with our surroundings. After all, a healthy majority of us were sporting awesome grey hairdos and orthopedic shoes.
Then, a small voice of knowledge chimed in: "there's a Justin Bieber concert happening across the street." We chuckled, sighed, and resumed studying our theater maps in silence.
Hey, I was a teenager once--I have enough 'N Sync songs on my iPod to prove it.
But I have embraced my old side. I am one of them.
