Ain't What it Used to Be

Is it just me or are girls' shorts really, really short?   Like the word "short" doesn't quite do it anymore?

I suppose it's no surprise that, the older I get, the more confused I feel.  Granted, there are times when resignation nudges out the confusion.  Not that that's any better.  But it is different, which counts for something.  Right?

All kinds of things seem to be transforming before my eyes these days, and I'm never quite sure if it's me or them who's changing.  I just know that things are different. 


This slow transformation has been going on a long time.  About 12 years ago, for instance, I remember mistaking my friend Gail's soda container for a gas can, thanks to its sheer immensity and punchy red color.  When she told me it was filled with soda, not ethanol, I was certain she was lying, because, surely, no one would sell--or buy--a silo filled with cola.

From there, my descent was a rapid one.  Three or four years ago, "Hot and Heavy" became a physical description more than an emotional one for me.    I'm still hot and heavy, although I'm hopeful that, with the advent of menopause (fingers crossed!), I'll just be. . . heavy.

Son Eric moves out of the house this Thursday--the Man Room returns!  A year ago, I submitted a blood test and a letter of dispensation to the public schools' equivalent of the Pope just to take the day off and help Eric move.  This year?  I have every intention of leaving him a note scratched out on a sticky pad, wishing him well and reminding him that the room should be returned to its former glory. 
I feel bad that I don't feel worse about his impending move.

Maybe I should write him that note tonight.  Just to be sure.

My day job sure seems different to me, as well.  Gone are the days of casual indifference, replaced with the rigidity of standardized testing and similarly-paced lesson plans, lest a young one wander or switch teachers at semester.  Even though I know there is good behind this push for uniformity, I'd be lying if I said I don't occasional miss the days when I could send a student out with a dollar or two to pick me up a donut on her way to the photography-supplies store.

More and more, I'm finding my clothes at Shopko rather than Dillards, even though I'm not averse to trying to fancy it up a bit.  Just yesterday, for instance, I went to Von Mauer's, looking for a decent pair of khaki pants, only to leave discouraged, wondering if they use a different set of numbers than my store of preference. And what was with all those frilly, see-through, wildly patterned shirts?  They looked more like scarves than shirts and I was scared.  And that man playing piano in the middle of the store?  He kind of creeped me out.

Somehow, though, I know that, come tomorrow, I will show up at school dressed pretty much appropriately, hopefully wearing underwear whose elastic rests below my pant line, and greet the new freshmen with an open heart, an honest smile and an outdated theme song raging in my head.  And it will all be okay, regardless.