A few things. The woman who works at the deli calls me “young lady.” She has a kind of abrasive personality to begin with, so the condescension really isn’t appreciated. I’m 26 years old. I don’t think anyone is allowed to call me “young lady” any more. She doesn’t call everyone “young lady.” Right after she served me my black bean salsa she said to the woman next to me, who was maybe in her 40s, “Can I help you, ma’am?” If she really feels it’s necessary to distinguish between ages, couldn’t she at least call me “miss,” the way that other people talk down to me? Or at least would it be okay if I started addressing her as “oldie”?
Next, I am not a young lady. And I’m not just saying that defensively. It’s scientific. I learned in my psych class that the prefrontal cortex reaches maturity at age 25. That’s the part of your brain that deals in planning and decision-making. Honestly, I think I felt it click, when the final piece moved into place. I love growing older.
I love, and simultaneously hate, that I am not capable of text messaging the way that young people are. It’s the first time that I’ve felt physically resistant to technology, although I’m trying. As I was walking to my class this evening I saw a kid hunched over his phone in the main entrance. I eventually figured out that he was texting, but at first glance it looked like he was attempting to cut through a piece of leather with a jack knife – his movements were sharp and violent – he was attacking his cell phone. I can’t walk a straight line when I text. People who text while driving scare me senseless. I am too wordy for text messaging. I want to go on and on forever, the way that my fingers move here, the speed that thoughts tumble out of my head. I have too much to tell you to fit into a text message. Text messaging is censorship. That ship don’t sail.