I met today’s Summer Hiatus guest through AllMediocre.com. Chris lives in Utah, has three boys and the flattest stomach I’ve ever seen on a mom (don’t hate her – she earns it by working out daily). Her blog is called Csquaredplus3 because she and her husband are both named Chris (and of course – the three sons).
When I first started reading Csquaredplus3, I was immediately struck by Chris’ ability to mix both funny and sad, joyous and poignant, irreverent and serious. I truly enjoy her writing regardless of topic. Two recent posts that I loved are Secret Lovers (a title she regrets since everyone who reads it instantly gets the old 80s song stuck in their head) and The Damn Scam.
More often than not, I find myself nodding as I read Chris’ blog and saying, “me too!” And her guest post doesn’t disappoint.
As a child, my parents socialized with their friends, not the parents of my friends. I remember meeting kids when Mom and Dad took us to an adult get-together where the invitation was extended to the children too. My parents eased our anxiety about the unknown [who will we play with?] with promises of, “There will be kids your age. You’ll have fun.”
Sometimes there were kids our age, sometimes not. While parents had cocktails, played bridge, and visited, the kids resided in the “kids area” and awkwardly introduced ourselves, asking… “How old are you?”
Grade level and school attended were also of interest. God forbid someone’s age betrayed a grade level. Some rude kid [usually my brother Mallory/Joe] would inevitably ask, “Did you flunk, or get held back?”
I think our fascination with age never leaves us. In college I dated a boy I met in an Economics class. I assumed he was my age. On our date he told me he was 23. I was 20. He might as well have been 64. He seemed too old to be living in the dorms taking sophomore-level college courses. I chose not to date him again. [He also giggled like a girl. I couldn’t get beyond that.]
As an adult, I’m frequently asking Chris and my friends, How old do you think he/she is? How old are they? Are they our age? When I visit a new blog I’m disappointed when the blogger doesn’t reveal their age on the “About Me” page. If an age isn’t revealed, I satisfy my curiosity by searching for facts and photos that might give me an indication of the person’s age. Oh, she has a 19-year-old son and celebrated her 22nd anniversary. She’s got to be about my age… Oooh, this is a young one. Not married, he knows an awful lot about 90s kid shows. I’m thinkin’ early 20s… Look at her skin! And that chest! She’s not a day over 30 and she’s obviously never nursed a baby, or if she has, she’s had a little work…
As I’ve gotten a bit older, I’ve learned that age can explain much about someone’s interests, views and priorities, but at the same time I’ve learned I can’t generalize as much as I once did. Age continues to fascinate me – I love to know a person’s age. I wish we all wore a number on our shirt, like Lavern’s “L” on Laverne and Shirley that reveals our age. I’d like that.
A couple of days ago, Toddler Child was sitting in his highchair and he said, “How old are you Mom? Are you six or nine?”
I said, “How old do you think I am?”
I’m 42 years old. How old are you?