When folks ask me, “How old are you?” (a fox pass, but we’ll let that go by) I don’t have any problem telling them I’m in my seventies. Lately, though, I’ve come to realize that I’m not only in my seventies, I’m also in the seventies.
My hairstyle–if you can call it style–is puffy and gently curled. I wouldn’t know what to do with a hair straightener if I had one. Most of the walls in my house are covered with–are you ready for this?–wallpaper. My living room boasts a popcorn ceiling. I eschew the latest TV shows to the point where I don’t know what all the hoopla is about when Facebook is full of Duck Dynasty rants. If you have a question about Upstairs, Downstairs, though, I can probably share your conversation. What’s more, I’m comfortable with all this. Well, maybe not the popcorn ceiling.
I still think of sushi as a dish to be avoided at all costs.
Drinking is not a part of our usual routine; I think the last drink I had was probably twenty years ago, and would surely have been a daiquiri or a classic (not from Starbuck’s) cappuccino. I don’t know if people drink those things any more or if there is a whole new crop of alcoholic favorites. I’m pretty sure most drinkers don’t imbibe Harvey Wallbangers these days, because I can’t seem to find a bottle of Galliano at any of the stores around here. I am, of course, looking for such a thing only to make a Wallbanger cake, but I’m sure you know that.
Hubby’s probably come just a little farther than I have. We finally sold his 1972 Chevy pickup a couple of years ago, but he hasn’t really been the same since then. I’m pretty sure he still has a radio for it, though, along with radios for a whole slew of vehicles older than that. (If you’re in the market for, say, a 1952 Ford manual-tune tube-type radio, be sure to let me know.)
I do feel that I’ve progressed. I know how to turn on the computer. I can find my way to the dashboard page of this blog (as long as no one deletes the bookmark for it) and on a good day I can add a picture or even change the font color. Most of the time I can’t remember how to link my dear readers back to a blog I did a few weeks ago, though.
Give me time. By the time I’m in my nineties, perhaps I’ll be in the nineties, too, and all of this electronic stuff will find its spot in my brain. Until then, you’ll just have to put up with me as I am, firmly anchored in the past.
I’ll see you again, after the commercial.