At the tender age of 34, I am battling grey hairs. This is nothing that a $3 bottle of Revlon Color Silk can’t fix. The grey hairs don’t make me feel old; I just find them unsightly. I have always believed that age was more a state of mind than a number or hair color. I must admit, though, that my 30th birthday did give me pause. So I touched up my roots and borrowed a line from Friends, declaring myself twenty-ten to anyone who inquired!
Recently, however, my mindset has changed and I have been feeling old. Old and ornery. It started with trivial things like the fact that Andy and I kept falling asleep and 9:30 pm, not even halfway through our Redbox rental. Then other things would trigger rants like newlyweds who didn’t find it necessary to send thank-you cards. Or people who felt the false intimacy of Facebook was an appropriate place to announce personal news such as engagements or pregnancies BEFORE personally telling close friends or family. These things would set me off on tirades that were typically only heard from the blue-hair brigade. Last time I checked, my shade was medium auburn brown. I shouldn’t be bothered by such things, should I?
Then last weekend my old, ornery self really reared its ugly head. The doorbell rang and when I answered it I was met by no less than FIVE children who wanted to know if Makenzie could play. This bothered me for a number of reasons. First of all, they should be asking to play with Brayden AND Makenzie. Second of all, only two of these children were the same age and the twins. The other three were between the ages of 7 and 9. They had no interest in playing with my kids. They just wanted to play on our stuff. Last time I checked, I was not the neighborhood babysitter. Third, did I mention that it was 7 pm?
The twins are always very excited to play with other kids, so I told them they could play for a short while. I was not so excited, however. What happened to common courtesy? Shouldn’t the parents call first to make sure it is alright for their children to come and play? Especially when there are so many of them? Especially when it is 7 o’clock at night? What exactly is the proper etiquette for play dates?
Funnily enough, the answer to this last question came after I sent the neighbor kids home. My brood was settling down with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and I decided to settle in with a magazine for a few minutes. When I opened it Peggy Post had written a response to a very similar play date question. I was not alone in feeling that this was poor parenting. A phone call is expected. I felt better—not like such an old, ornery lady—for a few minutes anyway.
That was when I heard kids playing outside my back window. I looked to see who it was: five boys around the ages of 9 or 10. They weren’t actually in my yard; they were in my dad’s pasture which is directly behind our house. The boys were jumping off the roof of his shed, rolling in an irrigation pipe and climbing his compost pile. I was worried one of them was going to get hurt so I went out there and told those little punks to get off the property! That was the kicker. I really felt like an old, ornery lady after that. Not to mention my house will probably get TP’d or egged or forked soon.
For the next few days, I wondered how to regain my youthful spirit. Maybe I could add a pink streak to my next dye job. Or download the latest club remix, turn it up and dance, dance, dance! No, I would still be bothered by the lack of courtesy around me. Why do these things bother me so much? And then it hit me. I am still young at heart, but old-school when it comes to etiquette. This is not a character flaw, but actually a positive attribute. Instead of dwelling on the improprieties of others, I should celebrate the fact that I know better. I should thank my mother for raising me right and hope that I can do the same for my own kids. That reminds me. . .I have some thank you cards to write!
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