My Wednesday articles are usually queer-themed or feminist-themed (i.e. man-hating-themed) but I have absolutely no ideas for a queer article this week.
I’m gayed out, guys, which is totally a thing, look it up (it’s not a thing, don’t look it up). Then I realized, because I am a queer feminist, anything I say counts as queer-themed/feminist-themed. Loophole! I’m coming up on my 29th birthday, which is scary because that means I have only one year left of my twenties. I know I’m not actually old, but I also know I’m not a carefree teenager anymore. I can feel my youth slipping away, even as I frantically try to capture it with endless selfies. So today, I am going to bitch at you about feeling old. Feel free to bitch back at me in the comments. Let’s all be old and cranky together.
1. Being called ma’am.
It’s cliche but I hate being called ma’am so much. What happened to “miss?” I never liked being called “miss” but now I miss it. Wordplay! Seriously though, why do we have to have gendered words to address strangers? I would be fine with: “Hey you, look up from your cell phone because you’re about to get hit by a truck in the Costco parking lot.” But I guess it was easier for the guy directing the truck to yell, “Ma’am! Ma’am!” His strategy was also effective. I didn’t die. But come on, I was wrapped up in my phone and not paying attention to the world, that’s what young people do! How could you “ma’am” me? And why do we have “miss” and “ma’am” but men only have “sir?” I would prefer to be called “sir.” Maybe I should demand that just to confuse people. Just kidding, please don’t call me “sir.” I don’t even call anyone “sir” except for one specific circumstance that I shall keep to myself. #cryptic
2. High schoolers look like babies to me.
I was working in a coffee shop today (like an adult), when suddenly I felt a rumbling and heard a commotion. Earthquake? Nope, it was 3:00, school had just let out and apparently all the kids in South San Francisco (don’t judge, I was there getting my tire fixed) go to Starbucks after. I think their main reason was to annoy me. They yelled loudly, laughed loudly, swore loudly, and did their algebra homework together loudly. I tried to explain that the quadratic equation would never, ever serve them in life and encouraged them to drop out and take up smoking. Then I weaved my way through the oblivious crowd of children blocking the door, and snapped at them to get out of my way. It felt good. It felt old. It felt a little depressing.
3. I don’t understand today’s pop music.
I don’t even try anymore. I don’t listen to the radio. I didn’t hear “All About That Bass” until months after it apparently took the country by storm. And I hate how catchy that song is because I find its lyrics to be contradictory and body-shaming for a supposedly body-positive anthem. I am absolutely that stereotype of “they just don’t make music like they used to.” When I came of age, we had the inspiring, socially aware, life-changing protest songs of Britney Spears and N*SYNC. Kids today just don’t get it. The glaring exception is “Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift, because that song is amazing. It speaks to the painful realities of modern life. Haters are gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. Fakers are gonna fake, fake, fake, fake, fake. Preach, Swift.
4. I don’t totally understand instagram and I’m too embarrassed to ask.
I guess I’m not that embarrassed, because I’m telling you about it here. I resisted joining instagram for years. My days are already filled with crafting brilliant facebook statuses and filling my friends’ news feeds with selfies. I don’t have time to take additional selfies for another social media app/thingy/website/something/whatever. Then I learned you can link your instagram to your facebook! So I can share my selfies in two places without having to take more! So I basically doubled my selfie productivity. I think I’m figuring out this instagram thing. The filters confuse me a little but I guess they’re cool? I keep forgetting to instagram things. Pictures are pretty. Selfies are the best thing in the world. What was I talking about?
5. I have fucking wrinkles.
No, not wrinkles from fucking, though that doesn’t sound all bad. I have wrinkles on my forehead and the beginnings of crow’s feet. Sometimes I think the crow’s feet are kind of cute, sure, but they better not get any worse, though alas, they’re obviously gonna get worse. I know, I know: I should quit smoking and put on moisturizer every night. In case you were unaware, I am more into complaining about my wrinkles than doing anything about it. My plan is to eventually steal Snow White’s youth. Be wary, young wrinkle-free folks, if a wrinkly 29-year-old offers you an apple. And definitely don’t call her ma’am.