The nadir of winter hit hard this year, as I found myself by mid-January in a constant state of self-directed eye-rolling. Perhaps it was when that bartender at Hopleaf yelled at me for my closing-time harmonica solo, or the instant I found a pair of mysterious high-heeled boots in my apartment, or, even, the morning I had to ride the bus home from the other side of the city during Chicago rush hour smelling like a hamburger and looking like a jolly winter clown wearing a ridiculous neon hat with a gigantic pom-pom. No matter the impetus, the time had come for me to put on an earth-toned cardigan sweater and take a nap.
In my new life as an old-fashioned, technology-baffled senior citizen, I've taken to wandering around my apartment wearing an enormous pair of used men's sweatpants and get nervous and overwhelmed when someone shows up with an iPhone. Having inherited a 1940s typewriter from my parents, I now use it to type rambling, nonsensical babble. And because I do not have a TV set up and rarely follow entertainment news, I had no idea until last week who Justin Bieber is, or that Web sites exist about people who look like him. To rub in this post-traumatic culture shock, I received my 2010 Census and got stumped immediately: What is Person 1's age?
An upside to this experiment, I have now been welcomed into several senior social circles. Not only did a lady with a walker slow-clap me as I ran past her in the park recently, but I was also invited to hang out in the fourth-floor room of a resident at The Ivy Apartments last week after an afternoon performance from my weekend CouchSurfer, an old timey brass music program which I attended and laughed and clapped and sang along with, all while receiving a refreshing cup of Sprite and a napkin of snacks.
"Honey," Blanche chirped as she showed me her closet, which cloistered one particularly flashy fur coat. "I'm not trying to get any action; I'm 94 years old."
I know exactly what you mean, I thought, and turned to run my hand along her armoire.
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