You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that I joined MySpace. My daughter was the first on my friends list. (Tom doesn’t count. He never does.) Now my first friend has abandoned me for greener, social networking grasses. I feel so virtually alone. It does seem that many, especially the Gen Millenniums, have migrated over to Facebook to flee the parental perusal of their personal innermost chaos that is youth. So, I pop over to start a Facebook page and see what all the hubbub is about. Much to my dismay, my Mother has a Facebook page. My Mother! When did she become cutting edge? I am appalled! Look, there are plenty of things I will let my Mom ‘win’ at: Shrinking the fastest; Growing hair in the oddest place; The Hacky Sack Boob Tournament; The Knee Replacement Gimp-Along; The Ambulance/ER Hula Hoop-alooza; The Left Blinker Drive-athon. But my Mother does not get to win at HIP! She can’t even program a DVD player, but she has a FACEBOOK page?!?
She just cannot out-cool me! My Mom has never been cool. Well, not that I’ve ever seen. She never wore neon pink fishnet leggings or high heeled tennis shoes. She never hitched across the United States. I’ve never known her to street race. She doesn’t play paintball. She has never hung out at the airport just to talk to random people coming and going. She never rocked out to KISS (although I did see her dance to a Madonna song once and died an inner death). I may just have an aneurysm over this whole thing.
Maybe it’s time to take a good long look in the mirror. Considering what I saw this morning, standing there naked and blow drying my hair then slathering on the wrinkle-defense moisturizer, I scrapped that notion all together. My mirror time has been drastically cut over the years since I found myself peering quizzically at myself and uttering,’Am I supposed to grow hair there?!” and “WTF! Why is that still jiggling?”
Maybe it’s time to get out my neon pink fishnets and recapture my true hipness? Remembering the result of the black fishnets I tried to pry on for a romantic anniversary evening months ago, I’m scrapping that idea too. Fishnets no longer hold their “ooh la la” appeal when there’s cellulite bulging from every hole. I looked like I was covered in a honeycombed pattern of tiny loaves of well-risen bread. Oh! The horror! What is even worse is that, currently, the only effective push-up bras I have are my forearms crossed in front of me. Of course, when I uncross them my breasts deflate and sink heavily like tube socks filled with over-ripe grapefruits. These things actually sling around now. Seriously! I have to be sure to wear a support bra when I vacuum or they sling in opposite directions posing a major danger to my face and ribs. I can’t run the risk of allowing centrifugal force making them meet in the middle. It would take me HOURS to untangle those things!
Maybe it’s time to embrace cool technology. Hmmmmmm. I don’t see the point in Twitter-ing. I mean, who wants to know I’m filing my nails, formulating spreadsheets, can’t find my keys, covering my grays, that I think I’m turning into a cat because I’m sprouting whiskers or I’ve spent the last two hours trying to untangle my boobs because I got lazy on laundry day?