Marla Jo Fisher
There seems to be some sort of fundamental misunderstanding around my house, in which my children perceive me as being hideously old-fashioned and, in fact, just plain old.
Nothing could be further from the truth. I am a very groovy, hip and with-it chick. I love to sit around and have a far-out time rapping with my friends. We all have a gas.
I can dance YMCA to the Village People. I can do the frug. I can still stay up past 9 p.m. Well, unless I need to crash early so I can book it to a groovy happening the next day.
I don’t know why my teenage offspring don’t see my cool and youthful Inner Self.
They demonstrate their lack of understanding by, for example, becoming red-faced and slinking away whenever I start dancing, whether it’s in public or in my own living room.
They also look at me in horror when I sing along with their favorite songs on the radio, as if this somehow disturbs the fragile balance of the universe.
“Mom, please!” they beg and change the channel frantically until they find a song I don’t know.
They refuse to listen to my stories about how much I loved my Twiggy doll, threatening to climb out on a ledge next time they hear the words “real hair eyelashes.”
Or how my boyfriends got thrown out of public places for having long shaggy hair — a concept they can’t even imagine. Neither the idea that long hair was once considered shockingly disreputable nor the idea it was once considered tight and stylish.
Or how I once saw Paul McCartney get out of his navy blue Mercedes sedan while standing in the famous crosswalk at Abbey Road Studios.
To them, this is like hearing Attila the Hun tell anecdotes about ransacking, well, whatever he ransacked. Or Michaelangelo spin tales of painting the Sistine Chapel.
“Oy,” he says, “My aching back from lying on that scaffolding! I need a hot stone massage like crazy.”
Me, too. And it’s nothing to do with age. I’ve just been dancing too much.
This bums me out.
My mirror is also cooperating in this conspiracy to make me feel old before my time. I don’t know who that person is staring back at me while I brush my teeth, but she has a disturbing jowly appearance that’s starting to look alarmingly like my mother.
In all seriousness, this simply cannot be. Because I know that I am still hip and trendy.
Didn’t I just explain to several friends about agave nectar and demonstrate its use in my very own kitchen? I drank a Cabo-tini the other day and used the word “fierce” in a sentence.
Don’t I have both a Facebook and a Twitter account?
Admittedly, when I stand in line at the supermarket checkout I no longer read the tabloids without buying them, because I have no idea who any of those people are on the cover.
But that’s just the nature of today’s disjointed pseudo-celebrity culture, and no reflection of my age. Really.
Don’t I know the words to several Lady Gaga songs, after hearing them 10,001 times on the car radio? That proves I’m not gaga myself.
I did sort of gag when Curly Girl’s friend’s mother brought her over one day on a skateboard. Both of them. On skateboards. It made me realize that not everyone adopted their kids at age 46, like I did.
But they’re not as cool as me.