Thursday, June 7, 2007

My Christmas story

I overheard someone at work talking today about Prince.

“You know how old he is? Forty-nine.”


It seems just like yesterday that I was lip-syncing “Let’s Go Crazy” for an eight-grade music class project. I shudder at the memory: four of us Madonna-wannabes rehearsing Prince’s hit song over and over in the living room, jumping off the sofa and playing air guitar.

But I digress.

It’s just that I’ve been feeling kind of old the last couple of days. This is the time of year that we start hiring college students for summer internships – “ the kids” as I unintentionally started calling them when I realized I’m almost twice their age.

But the true reality check about my disappearing youth came in an email I received yesterday with a link to a friend’s blog on her daughter. Her little girl had just turned four and had asked for a Barbie castle and an oven.

I remember asking for something along the same lines: the Barbie Dream House and the Easy-Bake Oven – my own obsessive version of the Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle BB gun with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time.

I didn’t get either, although I received a modified version of the Barbie mansion: a three-story townhouse, complete with a manually operated elevator. Pretty cool.

Pretty cool?!?!

Should I be having that reaction in my mid-30s? Or worse, should I be as eagerly anticipating the day that Ladybug asks for a Barbie Dream House so that I can play with it too?

Maybe it’s my way of trying to recapture the younger years when there weren’t bills and taxes and work to worry about.

And hey, at least I won’t shoot my eye out.


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