I looked over my husband’s shoulder when he chuckled. He was sitting at the kitchen table and on the lap top screen in front of him was the in-box of his email account. He pointed to one subject.
“What’s that? A work do?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, next Thursday, probably.”
“Mutha effers?” I found myself saying in middle aged tones, “that’s from someone called Moira?”
“Yep Lucy. No doubt about it, we are getting old.”
I felt sad. Was my time past? My youth over? Would I never be one of the gang, a mutha f-er?
All the texts and emails I get about socialising are “Hi all! Fun pub quiz in aid of school on Friday!” or “Hey Senior Infant Mums! What about coffee before the school holidays?” All exclamation marks, warm words and always bubbling over with enthusiasm. Many mutha’s but not a f-er in sight.
Quite a few of my husband’s co-workers are young. By young I mean around ten years (or more!) younger than me, and him. I’ve met them on work nights out a few times and without fail, am treated by them with the utmost politeness and respect. Men rise and shake my hand; women look at my shoes and smile kindly. It’s exactly how my college friends and I would have spoken to each other’s parents at graduation nights and twenty first birthday parties.
In an effort to offset the feeling of “old crone-ness” I usually sit down in a jaunty way and (fatal mistake) take my glasses off and leave them beside my drink. Who needs these? Not I!
So unless I’m within snogging distance of anyone, I can’t see them. And the thing is, it is very difficult to talk to someone unless you can read the expressions on their faces. For a start it isn’t entirely clear if they are talking to you or the person next to you and also, it is handy to know if someone is smiling or not.
Thus, I leave myself with only the option of looking vaguely into the middle distance and nodding to whatever music is playing. Which hopefully, makes me look hip and young. Hopefully.