My young adult children think I’m old. This may be a common misconception about someone who’s achieved the exalted rank of 67 years, but it’s completely untrue.
My mental age is actually hovering right around 27, but it’s combined with the deep wisdom of an old soul, the combined knowledge of a few dozen college professors and the knees and scrambled brains of a pro football retiree.
Now, they never actually tell me that they think I’m ancient, you understand. Because they know I’d whack them upside of the head. (This is a lie. I wouldn’t actually whack them and even if I did, it wouldn’t hurt.)
But they make their opinions known in other ways. Like mocking my driving. Now, let me explain that I’ve always been an excellent driver. Keen, alert, watchful, admittedly a little too fast but I always keep a safe following distance. I studied defensive driving. I stay out of other drivers’ blind spots. I even had a chauffeur’s license at one point, when I had a night job driving the Hilton Hotel van to and from the airport in Salt Lake City.
So I resent any vicious insinuations that my ability to drive might be impaired in any way. Bite me, you kids.
OK, maybe I bent the rim of my tire when I hit a median I didn’t see late at night. But, hey, that could happen to anybody. Since my kids never bother to read this column, I will admit that maybe my night driving is not all it used to be. But, shh, that’s just between us.
I now have to wear glasses when I drive, thanks to the deceptive overhead eye charts at the DMV, which insisted that I was reading them wrong when I last had to go in for license renewal. Hey, it was dark in there. Anyone would have trouble reading those letters.
When we went to Maui in February, my 25-year-old daughter, Curly Girl, insisted on driving our rental minivan on the famous Road to Hana, which is an all-day scenic drive with about 2.3 million sharp curves.
Once upon a time, I would have snorted at her, rolled my eyes and just grabbed the keys, but this time, I just climbed into the passenger seat and rode shotgun, while she expertly negotiated the narrow, winding road all day long.
Hey, I got to enjoy the spectacular rainforest and ocean scenery, while she had to stay focused on the road. If that’s what happens when people think you’re old, gee, that’s OK with me.
Meanwhile, whenever the kids give me a hard time, I remind them of the days when they would bicker so furiously in the back seat that I would pull over, make them get out of the car and sit on the curb and stay there until they decided to shut up.
That was the only thing that seemed to work, though eventually I just had to pull over and turn off the car engine to get them to simmer down.
“Mommy, let’s go! We’re going to be late!”
“No, I’m happy here. You kids are giving me a headache.”
“OK, OK. We’ll be quiet. Let’s just go.”
That worked then, and I’m still pondering how I can get revenge on them while they’re driving. Maybe playing Broadway show tunes on the speakers. That will send them through the roof. Or criticizing their driving every second and telling them they should have taken the shortcut because it’s faster, like my son has done since he was 5 years old.
Sometimes, I tell them that I’m the one who taught them how to drive, so they should just back off. This is a blatant lie. I found it far too stressful, so they learned from various friends who didn’t mind trips around empty parking lots. But at least I drove them to the DMV for their driving tests. That counts, right?
I really try not to butt into their young adult lives too often, so they’ll keep talking to me. But occasionally they’ll come up with some idea that is just so incredibly boneheaded that I have to weigh in.
They either ignore me, or explain to me why I have no idea what I’m talking about.
“I’ve lived for 67 years!” I usually remonstrate with them. “You should LISTEN to me. I know stuff.”
But they never do, so I just go home and bang my head against the wall, while they adopt two giant dogs, ensuring that no one will ever rent an apartment to them again, or buy a new car that’s three times more than they can afford.
Occasionally, I am reminded that maybe I’m not actually 27 anymore. Like when I give Cheetah Boy a plastic water bottle to open for me, because it’s been hermetically sealed to ensure only a professional bodybuilder can wrench it open.
Or when I mention the first time I ever saw a fax machine, and people look at me mystified like I’m talking about some sort of device they used back in horse-and-buggy days.
But generally I just do my best to continue my 27-year-old life, except that now I want to sleep on a comfortable mattress, eat good food, and realize that I’ve been to all the dive bars I’ll ever need.
Unless you know a really good one. If so, let me know and I’ll check it out. Hopefully they have a good jukebox, too.
Related links
Frumpy Mom: Camping isn’t a vacation for Mom
Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: I might get around to cleaning. Right after this nap.
Marla Jo Fisher: I must like you, my house is a mess
I quit being my kids’ maid
Embarrassing your kids for fun and profit
