“Time can change me, But I can’t trace time.”
~ David Bowie
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A few months ago I was talking on the phone with a friend who happens to be in her eighties. She is a delight– mentally with it + honest to a fault. In other words, exactly who I want to be when I get to be an eightysomething.
In our conversation my friend mentioned that her granddaughter had emailed her some photos of herself with her friends. The young women had gotten dressed up and gone out to brunch together somewhere pricey. The photo of was of all of them in front of the restaurant.
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I asked my friend how her granddaughter looked in the photo and my friend said: “Cute, I guess. All the girls look alike to me, so I can’t tell which one she is. They all have long, stringy hair and carry huge purses. I think that my granddaughter is one of them.”
As we talked a bit more about kids.these.days. I chuckled to myself about me humoring a delightful older woman who was clearly confused by the obvious. I mean, how could she not know which girl was her granddaughter? Really.
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A younger friend of mine, who is not on Twitter, has a high school daughter, who is on Twitter. And as you know, I’m on Twitter. So, every once in a while I check to see what my friend’s daughter is doing on Twitter.
What I have discovered is that this girl is a good kid. She has pleasant friends, likes ice cream, doesn’t like schoolwork, likes sports, goes on dates. Nothing scathing at all– unless you consider a few swear words once in a while to be trouble. Which I don’t.
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One day last week I was glancing at the photos that my friend’s daughter had added to her Twitter feed and I saw a group shot of a bunch of teenage girls. They were all wearing skinny jeans and white t-shirts and pumps with 4″ heels. And I thought: “What a cute photo. I wonder which one is my friend’s daughter? They all look alike.”
Then it hit me. *BAM* I had just said exactly what my older friend said about her granddaughter and her friends. And I realized that I had morphed into an old woman who couldn’t distinguish one child from another.
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This means, of course, that now I must admit to my younger friend that I can’t recognize her daughter in the photo. I can’t help but wonder if my friend will politely listen to me on the phone while chuckling to herself about humoring me, a delightful older woman who is clearly confused by the obvious. I mean, I would understand where she was coming from… as I was in that same situation only a few short months ago.
Oh yeah. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.
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