Back in 19 Diggity 6

Truth be told, I’ve never really gotten along that well with people my own age. Yes, before anybody jumps on me (you know who you are), there are exceptions, but generally my friends average out to be about seven years older than me. Believe me, this is not a “look how mature I am” post. My premature aging probably goes beyond what is natural or impressive. For example, on a recent trip to Target, I bought corn pads (all cleared up, FYI) and a contour neck pillow with memory foam. And no, it wasn’t the fancy NASA kind. I’m also a penny-pincher who always chooses to go generic. I also love old lady names like Ethel and Dolores, am obsessed with comfortable footwear, and, when I can be talked into driving, I don’t like going faster than 25 miles an hour. To me, the perfect Saturday night is curling up with my dog and catching up on my stories. I think that music was better “back then” and hide my alcohol in a collection hollow Civil War figurines (that might be a lie).

Anyway, never was my old ladyishness more raging than today in my Women’s Studies lecture. As the professor was introducing the guest speaker (some broad on her period, no doubt), I kept being distracted by two girls sitting next to me who were fake whispering (the kind that sounds more like talking). Not only that, but these were the same girls that had fake whispered through the entire previous lecture. I tried to ignore it, but found out that I could not. What did I do? Did I yell at them to shut up? Did I give them the hard stare? No, what I said was this:

“Ladies, can you please wait to have this conversation after class?"

Throughout the remainder of the lecture, I kept shaking my head and thinking, “Kids these days. Who ARE their parents?”