I’m too old for this shiz

Mean Girls? They’re probs not that bad.

Our team’s admin assistant pointed out to me the other day, in her own very kind way, that she didn’t know I was ‘totes’ old until she realised I was not using the word ‘probs’ correctly.  When I enquired what the ‘correct’ use of this made-up word was she explained that it was ‘probably’, not ‘problem’, as I was using it.  How was I to know though? Being born in the Neolithic Era and remembering 90210 the first time around and all.

Apart from the thinly veiled, backhanded compliment, this whole conversation concerned me, because it made me realise that some of the things I say or do might make me appear to be trying to kick it with the young folks – even though that is not my intention.  So, am I too old for this shiz?  Shiz like saying shiz, for example.

I’m embarrassed to say I usually pick up these words when I’m watching snappily written television comedy like ‘Scrubs’ or ’30 Rock’ and think I’m going to sound like a sassy, less attractive version of Tina Fey, rather than a superannuated Mean Girl.   I’m even more embarrassed to say that I also pick up these words from sharing lifts with students training for higher degrees at my workplace.  Is it sad or more worrying that the future science wizards of the world pepper their sentences with far too many ‘like’s and ‘OMG’s?  Yep, they are the ones that will be like totes curing cancer one day, mmmkay.

I genuinely am not trying to act young, I promise, but I should probably stop saying things like ‘peeps’ and ‘whatevs’.  Because:

a)      I’m not from the ghetto; and

b)      I’m not a teenage girl in the depths of the Princess Bitch-face stage.  Grumpy woman? Yes!

The age gap is also apparent in the area of clothing.  Skirt and dress lengths get me so g-darned annoyed these days.  I lean more on the more is more style of dressing, hence the urge to run up and down Brunswick Mall on a Saturday night and yank on the bottom of all the 18-20 year olds dresses lest their bottom cheeks get chilly.

Here are some fashion rules I think everyone can abide by, whatever your age:

1)      If you can’t wear it in front of your Grandma, you can’t wear it in public (this goes for tarty clothes and clothes with swear words on them); and

2)      If they’re not swimmers and you need a bikini wax to wear it, then it’s too low or too short, and no one wants to see your hoo-ha.

So I’m probably closer to dressing too old for my age, but what stage is it that leggings go from great way to wear a short dress without looking like the village bicycle to freaky art teacher trying to cover up her cellulite?

Hair is another example of the gaping age chasm.   When I was younger, I wanted it flat and dead straight, now I definitely want more air in my hair and am trying to muster up a new millennium bee-hive most days.  Do I think the additional inches on the top of my head may subtly distract from the Pepe Le Pew patch that is slowly creeping across my hairline?  Next time you’re in the gym changing rooms, try and guess the age of the person in question by how they are blow-drying their hair.  Head upside down, older.  Blow dryer directed at the top of the head and a brush frantically combing downwards, younger.

Most of the time, I’m pretty happy being the age I am, but occasionally I long for the days where a hangover wasn’t a guarantee after a night on the turps, or when I didn’t feel the urge to punch bouncers in the neck when they don’t even pretend they want to see my driver’s licence upon entering a bar or night club.

So while I teeter on the line of young and old, the fact I’m wondering if I have tipped over the edge of the cultural zeitgeist and asking who the young folk listen to, but not really caring, probably demonstrates which side of the line I am actually on.