Good news everybody:
I’m still younger than the average American. Just spent a lot of time combing through the 2010 census looking for demographic data to back up my position on certain, ahem, sensitive topics of discussion in an academic forum and while I was there, I also discovered that the average American is 36.8 years old.
That is good news, right? I mean, younger is better, if only because… wait… I can’t remember why younger is better. I know that the media tells me it is, and that for some reason all of my clothing looks infinitely better on my teenage daughter than it does on me, but aside from that, I can’t remember any hard and fast data that will back me up on that particular assertion.
I know the toddlers don’t buy it. Or the almost old enough to date/drive/etc teens. Or anyone on the brink of retirement age, for that matter…
My husband, however–did I
rub it in yet tell you he turned 40? Yup, we are on opposite sides of that chronological hill.
Speaking of age differences.
My youngest brother is almost exactly ten years my junior.
I was poised to follow that sentence with some direct quotations from my ten year old self regarding the cosmetic deficiencies of my new baby brother.
But that will have to wait, because right… there…. on the brink, I remembered that I got a wedding invitation from another brother this morning.
Also a younger brother. That… might… possibly be younger than the one I just labelled my “youngest brother”.
Mostly because I really have no idea how old this particular brother is. We did not grow up in the same house, and we haven’t had much contact. I thought about making a guess at his age by scrutinizing the photograph, except that there isn’t one. Invite to wedding: check. Registration card listing various department stores: check. Map insert with directions: check. Invite to dinner party: check. Invite to reception and dance, etc, etc: check.
But no photo.
The really awkward thing, is this means it’s entirely possible for me to mistakenly show up at a complete stranger’s wedding and not even realize it. Yeah. Unless that stranger happened to be, I don’t know, Asian or something. I fairly certain that my brother has a distinctly Aryan flavor.
Not that I’m actually going, because:
- I have class that day.
- They are getting married 832 miles away, and by June, I won’t be able to afford enough gas to transport myself to the college via my own personal automobile, let alone Swift Current, Saskatchewan, Canada.
I thought about going (of course, I also thought about running away to Malaysia, too, and looked how that turned out) mostly for illogical reasons related to the shirking of one’s duty to work, children, etc, but also because it would be so absolutely unexpected. And, you know, seeing as I am both younger than the average American and therefore have the impetuous nature of youth on my side, and yet I am also approaching that proverbial middle age wherein you can blame such things on a fleeting mid-life crisis, I figure it’s a perfect storm of excuses. No?
Really though. Somebody needs to invent a cheaper form of travel.
If only so I can show up at a complete stranger’s wedding and introduce myself as his long-lost sister and see the expression on his mother’s, or his father’s face. Depending on which one is more suspicious of the other. Could make for some memorable moments.
(PS: I know this was supposed to be a post about gratitude. And I am–grateful, that is, because I finally finished and sent off my sociolinguistics literature review today. Uhg. May you never, ever experience English 535 and you, too, will have reason to be grateful eternally.)