I'm getting old.
Two days ago, I spent a leisurely afternoon shopping -- my small fortune of Christmas gift cards tightly packed into my wallet, which is too small -- and came home with light gray trousers from Express and a pair of loafer pumps. Loafer pumps. What is this? 1974?
My diet is now coffee-based. Every time someone asks me if I want room for cream, I feel like they're offering me a bad real estate deal. "Congratulations, you are the proud owner of a new four-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath home, but we will be using two of those rooms for our own storage. That's in the contract somewhere." No, no. Dark roast, black. Fill 'er up. All the way up.
Last quarter at SCAD, I had an assignment to give an informative presentation about the designer of my choice. When the time came, I pulled up my PowerPoint -- which was nothing more than a slideshow of my favorite Eero Saarinen, Mies van der Rohe, and Harry Bertoia pieces -- and blissfully babbled for fifteen minutes about Knoll furniture. Furniture. Furniture is what you argue about in divorce settlements, what you sit on and lie down on and spill popcorn on, not what you willfully research for weeks so you can tell all of your classmates about it.
So far, the most troubling aspect of suddenly getting old when I'm twenty is that I can't stand people my own age. Not all of them, you see, but so many of my peers are immature, rude, uneducated, selfish little pricks, and so am I; but that's not the point, because at least I know these things about myself. What's more astonishing is that I'm learning how to keep my mouth shut in these situations. If you know me, you know this is a feat, and it's no longer because I don't care: it's because it's the humble thing to do.
What?
Join me in 2012 as I put on my glasses so I can read the DVD menu, pay more in shipping than the cost of the French press filter part I ordered online, and learn to say, "Sorry, I can't go out with you tonight because I would rather be at home, on the couch in front of the T.V., with the dog and a glass of wine."
Cheers.
Two days ago, I spent a leisurely afternoon shopping -- my small fortune of Christmas gift cards tightly packed into my wallet, which is too small -- and came home with light gray trousers from Express and a pair of loafer pumps. Loafer pumps. What is this? 1974?
My diet is now coffee-based. Every time someone asks me if I want room for cream, I feel like they're offering me a bad real estate deal. "Congratulations, you are the proud owner of a new four-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath home, but we will be using two of those rooms for our own storage. That's in the contract somewhere." No, no. Dark roast, black. Fill 'er up. All the way up.
Last quarter at SCAD, I had an assignment to give an informative presentation about the designer of my choice. When the time came, I pulled up my PowerPoint -- which was nothing more than a slideshow of my favorite Eero Saarinen, Mies van der Rohe, and Harry Bertoia pieces -- and blissfully babbled for fifteen minutes about Knoll furniture. Furniture. Furniture is what you argue about in divorce settlements, what you sit on and lie down on and spill popcorn on, not what you willfully research for weeks so you can tell all of your classmates about it.
So far, the most troubling aspect of suddenly getting old when I'm twenty is that I can't stand people my own age. Not all of them, you see, but so many of my peers are immature, rude, uneducated, selfish little pricks, and so am I; but that's not the point, because at least I know these things about myself. What's more astonishing is that I'm learning how to keep my mouth shut in these situations. If you know me, you know this is a feat, and it's no longer because I don't care: it's because it's the humble thing to do.
What?
Join me in 2012 as I put on my glasses so I can read the DVD menu, pay more in shipping than the cost of the French press filter part I ordered online, and learn to say, "Sorry, I can't go out with you tonight because I would rather be at home, on the couch in front of the T.V., with the dog and a glass of wine."
Cheers.
clever post, Emily. i'm sad we didn't make those cookies over break - one of these days ....
ReplyDeleteHa...I think you're confusing "getting old" with "maturation," which may or may not have anything to do with age. Part of maturing is realizing that the world is bigger and far more interesting than you ever could have dreamed!
ReplyDeleteYou are not old. I am old. I have a degree in advertising...when I graduated "social media" wasn't even a term people used yet. You're old when you start to become obsolete.
Also, this:
ReplyDeletehttp://jenniferanneking.blogspot.com/2012/01/on-getting-older-and-why-i-like-it.html
Love that blog post! Hey, I may go into advertising when I graduate. Advertising is not obsolete, and neither are you!
ReplyDelete