In talking to the financial aid office at the college the other day, I was having a difficult time understanding what the receptionist was suggesting until I realized she was discreetly trying to ask if I was over forty. Without asking. Without making it necessary for me to confirm or deny. (Apparently there are scholarships for women of a certain age.)
I guess I didn't know there were still people who were squeamish about discussing aging.
Really…does it matter if you know how old I am?
Will it change anything–except for maybe what scholarships I am currently eligible for?
Which, by the way, I'm not–seeing as I'm white, not guilty of any felonies, and have a parent who graduated college–which, albeit expensive, is probably as it should be.
In other news, I attended the cub scout Blue and Gold banquet last night with my sons. I am ashamed to say that I was bored out of my mind and very cynical about the entire evening. I would say more, but the guilt would probably eat away at me all day until I was compelled to delete the post entirely for fear of offending somebody.
That and at some core level I was counting my lucky stars that it wasn't me up there relating the history of scouting, not to mention that I didn't have to plan, cook, decorate or set up for the event. All I had to do was show up and resist rolling my eyes. Which I mostly was successful at.
The night was not a complete loss, as I snuck out for half an hour and did some grocery shopping: twenty-three boxes of cereal, 48 cans of veggies, three tubs of yogurt and a bag of salad; the checker asked if I ran a daycare; I asked how she knew; she raised one painted-on brow.
Can I here observe that I made it back before anyone noticed my absence, the opening flag ceremony began, or the first scoop of sloppy joe plopped onto the first paper plate?
I also deleted two years worth of old numbers off my cell phone, which felt predictably good, considering the owners of said numbers. And cleaned out my inbox.
Which left just over an hour to control the rolling of the eyes and any drawn out or audible sighing.
I'm not really that old and crabby, am I?
Here's the thing–intellectually, I understand what a dynamic program scouting can be. What an influence for good in a boy's life. I get that–and I encourage my boys to attend. But so far, even though I've served in scouting myself for years, and my boys have muddled through it, I can't really get myself to care who started it, or in what year, or who has how many patches and pins and who doesn't. And I certainly didn't enjoy skits and group games when I was a child–so why would I enjoy it in my old age?
Which is all of 34 years, if you're wondering but are too squeamish to ask. (There, now you know–does it change anything for you?)
Yeesh, I am crabby, aren't I?
Maybe I should go sit on the floor and build myself a really tall tower of Lego's for the babies to knock over, get in touch with the inner child I was born without.