Age Rage

If you ever want to feel really old, try selling some clothes at Crossroads or any other hipster-ish youth-oriented used clothing store. Watch in amazement as your clothes, still fresh with memories of the last time you wore them, are divided into two piles: the “reject” pile, which may as well be called the “ugh, my mom wears stuff like this, is it from Chico’s?” pile, and the “keep” pile, which you feel good about until you find out that the $86 blouse you bought at Anthropologie in a fit of optimism that your spin classes are paying off will be sold for $15, of which you get 35%, which is…less.

And then there are the little things that make me feel old. Things like being referred to as “that lady” by a kid in the park, and hearing the song “Let’s Hear It For The Boy” from the movie Footloose…on the Oldies station.

Now if you’ll excuse me, sitting at this computer is murder on my back and knees.

  • Dave

    I’m 48, my daughter’s 15. It’s annoying when a new cheerleader meets me and asks Bri, “Is he your grandpa?”