My new doctor should have been the wake up call. (I have a new doctor after this fiasco).
She walked into the room. Tall, blond, pretty face and ... younger than me?
I went home and told H "I like her. I feel really comfortable with her. But, it's weird. I think she's younger than me. Ha! Could it be? I don't know how I feel about that. She seems competent. It's just a weird phenomenon. I feel ... old."
I quickly forgot about it.
Until I went to a new gynecologist. (My old one moved).
She walked into the room. Another lovely lady, dark skin and ... wait, is she younger than me?
I think she is!
I immediately did some mental assuaging. Well, I can't be much older than them and I'm a lawyer. Just because the professionals you are now seeing are slightly younger than you doesn't mean you're old. It means we're ALL young. We're all young professionals here. Me and the doctor gals. All around the same age. Yes, yes, that's it.
Then, of course, there's this frequent occurrence at the Ronay house.
Me (in the living room to H in the kitchen): Do we have garbage bags?
H: Do I travel to a strange land?
Me: DO. WE. HAVE. GAR.BAGE. BAGS? You're going deaf.
H: You're going deaf.
H (in the bedroom to me in the kitchen): Your phone is ringing.
Me: I should call home singing?
H: YOUR. PHONE. IS. RING.ING. You're going deaf.
Me: You're going deaf. You said call home singing. I can't sing. I have a terrible voice.
H: Who's Joyce?
Yes, I should have accepted the signs.
But, no, I didn't hear the universe screaming "Hey Ferny, this is what happens in your dirty thirties!" (or as H or I would have heard it "Hey Ferny, your flattened hair is very purdy!" ... Why, thank you!)
Then, something happened Saturday. Something I couldn't ignore.
It was a beautiful day. My calf was feeling better (oh, yeah, I guess the ol' rickety calf I now have is another sign).
So, I decided to run by the lake.
There I was trotting along. As I got to the intersection at Illinois, I slowed down and reached for my iPod to change the song.
That's when it happened.
As I slowed and reached, my elbow bumped another runner.
I looked over.
She appeared to be in her early twenties, I would guess.
I didn't even think. I don't know where it came from. It just came out like I've been saying it for years. For years, I tell ya.
I said: Oh sorry, hon.
(insert record scratching to a halt (yes, a record! Remember those?))
HON! As in "honey." As in "I'm obviously the elder here and you're the youngin, hon." HON!
Now that I think about it, it all happens in slow motion in my head.
Ohhhh, sorryyyyyyyy, honnnnnnnnnnnn.
Maybe this is what I get for posting on Facebook last Thursday about the old people at the bakery at home in New Jersey (though I'm sure they'd say to forget about it and I'm still a hell of a broad).
Or maybe this is what happens when you write a novel about Italian Jersey grandparents guiding your protagonist.
That voice! I'm starting to talk in that voice. A writer's side effect, I suppose.
Or, maybe, part of getting older is seeing more and more of the population as younger than you.
Yes, I think that may be what's happening. It's okay. I've accepted it. Pass the prune juice.
In the spirit of Stop and Blog the Roses, at least I don't have any whiskers to pluck...yet.
And, thank you for reading, you dollfaces, you. Don't call or write. H and I will be on a cruise with our good friends Lee and Morty.
In all seriousness, I love these two. They make getting old - especially together - look sweet. So, it's not all bad. Not bad at all.
Though I must try to stave off the "hon's" for another thirty years, at least. Honestly, where did that come from?
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