It Feels Good to Feel Good

Last night I hung out, clubbing with some friends. Yes, that’s right, last night: hump night, middle of the week night, and I’m supposed to get up the next morning for work night. And at my age, too. Oh, my. What will all the Responsible Aged of America think? Who cares? I won’t crash until tonight. I’ll make it through the day. (I hope, I hope, I hope . . .)

Anyway, my sister friend spotted a friendly bunch of kids who just arrived, and wondered if they were around her daughter’s age, 15. I mentioned my reaction to attending a summer session with an auditorium full of college kids. They were like the fresh crunch of autumn-ripe Delicious apples, the soft whisper-brush of fluttering snowflakes, the fleshy blush of sun-warmed peaches . . . they were disgustingly young! No way could those babies be leading the world of commerce, education, science, art – anything – in just a few months. I felt ancient.

At the club, we pulled one of the young ladies aside, asked her if this was their regular gathering place. It seems she was older – probably all of 23 – and was bringing a group of City College drama/theatrical/musical students to see a song artist’s performance. She thanked me for thinking she was as “young” as her fledging student artists. My response: “Hey, I didn’t ask, don’t you tell.” We laughed, and kidded around a bit.

Then it dawned on me: I’m a City College alumnus! Got so caught up in the difference in our ages, almost lost the connection in our spirits. When I told her, she was so excited and began introducing me to each student. We were on -- and I was in!

Tell me I wasn’t also glad that I was sporting my slamming Matthews hat. At their ages, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it; at my age, I could buy my “inside” ticket to cool, add the sweet honey to slide into their thoughts of: “That’s who I want to be when I grow up.”

It felt good. They asked for my card to invite me to their performances. I hope they do. I hope I go. I like feeling good. Who doesn’t?

I Love Technology

When I was a little girl, my aunt visited often. I don’t remember the exact day, but recall taking one look at my homemaker mother schlepping around in carpet slippers, a frumpy robe, no makeup, and damage-cropped hair brushed back simply to keep her head from looking like a fronded pineapple. Then I looked at my aunt who stood slim and tall in her heels, tailored suit, lipstick highlighting a subtly made-up face, topped with a wide-brimmed hat, a self-fabric flower tucked off-center in the band. It was no contest; I wanted to be my aunt. She was a workingwoman. And not just an undistinguished secretary either, she was a private secretary. My first typing lesson began in the fifth grade under Mr. Rappaport, a very old (over 40?), very humorless, and very strict instructor. He didn’t rap knuckles for typing the wrong keys on those precious Remingtons (manual, back then), but my fingertips ached just as painfully from his consistent and repetitive metronome drilling: “A . . . S . . . D . . . F . . . Semi . . . L . . .K . . . J . . .” At Central Commercial High School, I was taught shorthand. At 14, with working papers in hand: my first secretarial job the summer of 1961. Upon graduation: employed as a clerk stenographer – technically, a secretary – for a couple of directors at the Board of Education. Two months into the job, at the ripe old age of 16, I looked at my surroundings, and my potential financial and career future, and asked myself: “Is this all there is?” Another five years and a few secretarial positions later, I met a woman who headed up the computing department in a company I’d just joined. A woman! The computers were huge mainframes, standing within a temperature-controlled, glassed-in room as sentinels against us outsiders. A staff and the mysterious language of computing were at her command. She revealed to me that she made an excellent salary, more than some of the managers in the other departments – and she didn’t even have a degree. Sold America!!! Once the window of opportunity opened some years later, I flew through it like a hawk spotting prey. I attacked the knowledge head on – but hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Plus, I wasn’t impressed with writing unfathomable code and juggling hundreds of 80-character punch cards. It wasn’t until personal computers, or PCs, came about, until I could see on a monitor what I was doing and the miracle of the results of my inputs, that I found my thrill, my skill, and the way up and out. I never managed a staff or a computing department. But I unlocked the key to the computing vault of secret languages that crunched numbers and sorted bits of data. My earnings skyrocketed and afforded me a measure of control over my financial destiny. Social Security will NOT be my sole source of retirement income. So I’ll retire to wherever the heck I want. I have e-mail addresses created for unique interests, accept direct deposit to my bank accounts, receive and pay my bills online with my laptop, keep appointments and contacts on my PDA, and communicate through my cell phone. Hey, I figure I’m free to live and enjoy most anywhere I please in North, Central, or South America. I simply love technology.

I've Got Some Thinking To Do

I'm coming to terms with my age -- 58 -- finally. Too old to hang out all night without crashing around the clock for the next two days. Too young to not want to hang out all night. I pioneered as a single mother by choice. Successfully it seems, since he's graduated from a reputable college right here in the good ol' US of A, has several good friends I gladly welcome across my doorsill, and is working. At a career. Yooha! . . . Yet, at 30 years old, he's doing stuff that make me question my choice. No details now. It still rankles and I start going off on a tangent, and rant, and rave . . . and see what I mean. In four years, I'm retiring. I started looking at 55+ adult communities. Why do developers think all baby boomers are wealthy? But, I thought that if I searched long enough, and thorough enough, I'd find something reasonable, where I could pay the mortgage and still not have to resort to consuming cat food for nourishment. Then I started meeting some of the 55+ folks. I never saw so many pale faces, knobby knees -- and women! Beware of those advertising brochures. Where are the happily smiling mature couples hugging up on each other and relaxing in the made-for-two swing before the setting sun? What is so wrong with adding a little brown rinse to that oh-so-dull gray hair? Would I be doomed to be shushed for turning up my Led Zepplin during their high noon naptime? Maybe there are some things I'm going to come to terms with -- my own terms.