I wouldn't exactly call some of them sages, just as I wouldn't call some of them the desired grandparents. Them. What is them? I've categorized the elderly as a them. Qualifications for being considered a them have been simplified to a mere ardent nature of reflection. I neither liked the ardent nature nor the reflections I received as being the objectified "young one." I attended a lovely tea party, as I was hoping to share camaraderie with humans other than I, me, and myself. I did, towards the end, finally meeting my own match (only off by sixty years), which did give me hope in the them race.
After making my rounds inside and always near the pastry and finger sandwich tables, I decided that I would like to talk outside in the most lovely backyard garden you'll see from here to Windsor Castle. I breathed in a full breath of fresh outside air and exhaled a heavy sigh of reproachful second-hand smoking. Pretty dress: ruined by a smoke smell. But what could I do? I had already become the object of them, teasing my youthful brain. It was not pleasant, for I could not identify with the secret of birthing either a boy or a girl, or the way menopause did all sorts of things, or how her fifth husband married her third husband, or how they drink every night until the morning. As in, how are they still alive?
I decided that by now all of us had had plenty to drink, and spirits being high and absurd I could get away with saying anything, regardless of my age. This was my chance, this was my time to make a statement. Bastille Day it was! But none of them were English so it wouldn't offend them anyways.
In the most -I have something extremely grave and important to tell you all as a secret- kind of way, I leaned in with authority. And then -in the most jovial manner, as a Edison would have when explaining his invention, or some mission-hearted coffee shop owner would when explaining the importance of freeing slaves through coffee and burlap, or Hitler when he was giving his grandly persuasive speech- I toasted to Bastille Day and everything commendable about it. Cheers all around with them who after the toast proceeded to ask me what Bastille Day even was. As my soul silently died inside upon brief explanation and they were no longer keen on catching up on the latest history, I realized that that was both exactly what I wanted to happen, and what I did not want to happen. I wanted to be able to share a celebration and understood word, but I didn't want to be "that youthful know-it-all." As I self-scorned and chewed on some Pimm fruit I thought to myself, "I have been put back in my place; time cannot be transcended."
A polite escape was excused by a scone, and that was when I met my match. Imagine having an hour-long conversation with an eighty-year old woman about Queen Victoria, shipyards, fedoras, and beastly men! She was my kind of woman.
After making my rounds inside and always near the pastry and finger sandwich tables, I decided that I would like to talk outside in the most lovely backyard garden you'll see from here to Windsor Castle. I breathed in a full breath of fresh outside air and exhaled a heavy sigh of reproachful second-hand smoking. Pretty dress: ruined by a smoke smell. But what could I do? I had already become the object of them, teasing my youthful brain. It was not pleasant, for I could not identify with the secret of birthing either a boy or a girl, or the way menopause did all sorts of things, or how her fifth husband married her third husband, or how they drink every night until the morning. As in, how are they still alive?
I decided that by now all of us had had plenty to drink, and spirits being high and absurd I could get away with saying anything, regardless of my age. This was my chance, this was my time to make a statement. Bastille Day it was! But none of them were English so it wouldn't offend them anyways.
In the most -I have something extremely grave and important to tell you all as a secret- kind of way, I leaned in with authority. And then -in the most jovial manner, as a Edison would have when explaining his invention, or some mission-hearted coffee shop owner would when explaining the importance of freeing slaves through coffee and burlap, or Hitler when he was giving his grandly persuasive speech- I toasted to Bastille Day and everything commendable about it. Cheers all around with them who after the toast proceeded to ask me what Bastille Day even was. As my soul silently died inside upon brief explanation and they were no longer keen on catching up on the latest history, I realized that that was both exactly what I wanted to happen, and what I did not want to happen. I wanted to be able to share a celebration and understood word, but I didn't want to be "that youthful know-it-all." As I self-scorned and chewed on some Pimm fruit I thought to myself, "I have been put back in my place; time cannot be transcended."
A polite escape was excused by a scone, and that was when I met my match. Imagine having an hour-long conversation with an eighty-year old woman about Queen Victoria, shipyards, fedoras, and beastly men! She was my kind of woman.
... And this blog post has yet to be finished to compliment it's original objective, but seeing how it is late, and almost the close of Bastille Day, yes, that is an important detail, and my poor toxified by English pim soda fingers are not in full collaboration with my tired mind, I must retire, as this post must retire, for now, upon the close of Bastille Day.
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