obsessing about age

As it turns out, being a cubicle hostage had a lot to do with my blogging. Hmm, thirty minutes until lunch, waiting for emails from so-and-so, such-and-such is with Merv, that meeting isn't until 2--I'll write a post! And now my beloved internet and I are not in such close forced proximity all the time. So, this. You know.

Not that I picture any of you hanging at your computer feverishly clicking 'refresh' for want of my words. And I promise that this will not be one of the blogosphere's ubiquitous posts-about-why-I'm-not-posting, except for the intro. I haven't quite figured out how to arrange the blogging schedule, how to mesh it with the school schedule and the Frances schedule and the Greg schedule and the volunteering schedule (which, as an aside, is finally all set up and ready to go--I gave them my application in March! And it cleared in September! It wasn't due to any lack of diligence on my part, dear readers; they just have a rigorous screening process, and with good reason).

Today, I am blogging in lieu of lunch. I hope you appreciate it.

Being surrounded by young people is not nearly as odd as I thought it would be; what's odd is that there are no old people. Occassionally someone with grey hair is standing at the front of the room, but otherwise I have yet to see a wrinkle. And in case this is construed otherwise, I am not poking fun at the whippersnappers; all of the fun-poking is directed towards me, for not being a whippersnapper myself. This is possibly causing me to dwell on my age more than is strictly healthy from a psychological point of view.

For instance:

My reward to myself for continuing to run all summer this year (so much as running was possible given the absolutely terrible weather this year) was a new running outfit, pants and t-shirt. This isn't as frivolous as it sounds. Previously I had two pairs of shorts I could run in and two t-shirts. I pay for each load of laundry. You can imagine, then, that trying to run (whether outside or on the elliptical) five or six days a week presented some challenges. Smelly ones.

Yesterday was reward day, so I took myself to Nike.

Note: I am neither proud nor happy about this. I revile Nike's business practices as much as anyone. But Nike is across the street, which means I don't have to drive, which means I'm not contributing to climate change (so it all balances out, right?), and it also means I get to pick Frances up nice and early and so gives me a handful of Mom Points I can spend later (more on that another day). Regardless. I took myself to Nike.

There was music playing but it was unrecognizable. I think one of the songs might have been Avril Lavigne. I walked past racks of something called "sport lifestyle" clothes, which means, so far as I can tell, clothes that look like gym clothes but that you can't actually work out in. Who has the money to buy non-workout workout clothes? Do you wear them just to look like you're trying to be fit? Wouldn't clothes that you can work out in be just as effective? I looked and I looked for the kinds of workout clothes that I already owned. Specifically, for shorts that ended around mid-thigh.

There were shorts that must surely ride halfway up your ass. There were pants that went below the knee.

Well good god. How long has it been since I bought workout clothes anyway? Only since the last time I was in university and ... I guess that was twelve years ago or so ... but why on earth would workout clothing styles change? Running and gym shorts are supposed to go to the middle of your thigh! Aren't they? Isn't this an immutable law of physics, like the injunction against bell-bottoms, feathered hair, brightly coloured eye shadow and big purses?

No no, don't tell me. I've been hanging out on campus for a week. I've seen it.

As it turns out, while I wasn't watching, I somehow became one of those people whose tastes get stuck on what was in style in their youth. It made me feel like Rip van Winkle. Don't ask me how I'm adjusting to all those baggy shirts, it's not pretty. (I need new shirts too. Crap.)

At least the workout t-shirts hadn't changed too much. If they were neon, I might have cried. Except apparently nothing's made out of cotton anymore.

I ended up with a pair of black workout whatevers that end just past the knee and a green t-shirt and I took them home and put them on and went for a run and felt absolutely stupid the entire time for wearing workout whatevers that ended past the knee. Like running in a miniskirt. It's just wrong. (I'm sure I'll adjust.)

Next time I'll tell you what it's like to be sitting behind someone with laptop in the lecture hall who is IMing on facebook and clicking through photos of their friends, and remembering the hallowed days of my youth when distracted students passed notes on paper.

Posted by Andrea at September 10, 2008 12:02 PM under The Supposedly Mature Student

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