611: Respect

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I am going to treat you like a mature, responsible, respectful human being…until you prove to me that you are not. Then, I will deal with the problem you are, or that you caused. The next time, I will treat you again like a mature, responsible, respectful human being….until you prove again that you are not. Again, I will deal with you. The third time, I will probably treat you like a real human person – repeat scenario. MAYBE the fourth time I will treat you respectfully……but I will also curtail what I will allow you to do, and how much interaction I have with you, because you have proven over time that you have no interest in adjusting those parts of you that are not mature, responsible and respectful.

And all of that is all on you.

Every stinking bit of it.

479: Gimme, dammit

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I want some.

I want some care, concern, and affection from a significant other – and a significant other would be nice while you are at it. I want it NOW, today, right this very minute. (stomps foot and pouts)

I have spent years – YEARS, I tell you – being primarily concerned with the well-being of others: students, friends, coworkers, husbands, children, the dadgum PETS, and even the freaking houseplants. I am pathetic. And responsible. And mostly an adult, which is sucking the life right out of me (some days I’m whiney, too).

I wish I could get away with rolling about on the floor, drumming my heels and screaming, but at the advanced age of 5(mumble, mumble), I would look ridiculous, and would certainly throw out my back, as well. WHY is piching a hissey fit something allowable only to toddlers, who don’t have NEARLY the justification for pitching a fit as us mature adults do? Ye gods.

When is it MY TURN?

362: Getting older beats the alternative.

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There is very little that is attractive about getting older – visually, anyway. Perky breasts, taunt abdominals, smooth skin and slimness have gradually given way to…..well…..let’s just not go there. Some of you may have just eaten.

Plus, my short-term memory is not what it used to be, either. It was never really great, but lately I must actually have a place for everything and everything in its place not for neatness sake…but for self-defense.

And the assorted aches and pains are Indian……gradually creeping up on me. Here’s the very worst part of all…..

No, no, not the sex. My partner is as old as me, so we have aged together, and he’s not a whole lot prettier than I am, so neither of us has had to resort to bagging yet – that part is fine. Really. OK, don’t believe me.

The worst part of all? It is the FOOD. I’m pretty sure you are scratching your head and thinking….food? What on Earth? Yeah, it is the FOOD. Here is the real story about getting old. When you are young, back in the dark ages, for me, you eat whatever tasted good and whatever your parents force you to eat for your own good, plus whatever you were stupid enough to load on your own plate. See, I am a preacher’s daughter. That means, for those of you not so blessed, that I attended LOTS and LOTS of pot-luck dinners. LOTS. What I learned is that some pots are lucky, and some are toxic waste. However, if it looked good and you put it on your plate, you were obligated to eat it, because somebody brought it, and they have relatives. So, I learned to be wary, and to put small tastes of stuff on my plate, and then return for seconds if it was actually good: you could not trust what it looked like. Those chocolate chip cookies actually might be raisins, you just don’t know. It paid to be careful.

The hard part about growing old is that your tastes change a little, but not nearly enough. When you are young, spinach and broccoli and other veggies get better with age (yours, not theirs), but still – what happens to oldsters is just not fair. When you are young, you can eat junk with little worry, because your metabolism and your youth combine to allow you to sin in this area with relative impunity. Not so as you mature. Over time, the sinning you did as a youngster catches up with you. You stop growing up and grow out….and, as my husband said, I don’t fit my clothes anymore.

I had never heard it put that way before. It is a simple switch in emphasis, but a profound paradigm shift to say I don’t fit my clothes, rather than MY CLOTHES DON’T FIT ME. See, before, it was the clothes’ fault, plain and simple. This new way of putting it, put the blame squarely where it belonged, and where I did not want it: on ME. Meh.

Plus, when you mature, there are other health concerns that the doctor points out to you when he tells you to ‘avoid’ certain food items – what he means is you can’t have that anymore. Usually, THAT is whatever tastes good. You are allowed to have anything you don’t like, and the more you don’t like it, the better it is for you. THAT is what is monstrously unfair.

If we were gonna have to eat like this, why not just never let us ever eat anything that tastes good, so we won’t mind it so much when we have to give it up? Sheesh.

Still – you have to admit, getting old beats the alternative………………………….