I have recently come to the realization that I am a middle-aged woman.
Actually, let me rephrase that.
I may look on the outside like any other college kid, but I have been aware for some time that my manners and interests coincide heavily with those of women who drive minivans. I have been known to attempt conversations about the merits of one vacuum cleaner relative to another. My favorite shows are what my friends affectionately call "old people TV," those which are interrupted for commercials advertising programs to invest in your child's college fund and women's multivitamins. I spout out the horrible puns bored mothers are known to make on a regular basis: never mention a cat around me unless you want to know exactly how "purr-fect" it is, and expect me to interrupt any movie we may be watching with ill-received puntastic comments. I have never played a video game, as there are far too many buttons for me to comprehend and the jerky angles make me motion sick. Instead, at night, I dream of retiring to a nice La-Z-Boy to put up my feet and enjoying a mug of hot tea.
This realization has just been thrown into sharp relief with my recent move to the dorms, where I am constantly made aware of how absolutely I do not fit into the norm of first-year college behavior. As my hallmates rush about on a Friday night, getting ready to hit Rugby Road, I can be seen padding back and forth to the bathroom, with my "Feline Sleepy" pajama set and kitty slippers. As I wake up in the morning, they stumble in, and we glance at each other with appraising looks, each of us wondering who has it worse - them with their day of hangover suffering ahead or me with my unconventional social life. At least, that's what I'm thinking. They're probably thinking something along the lines of, "Hey, nice cat pajamas." About a month ago, I was shown a great website which specializes in DIY craft ideas. When I exuberantly showed this to my best friend, I received a swiftly cutting look and a comment somewhere around the realm of, "This is for stay-at-home-moms, not college freshmen." I resolutely stuck to my guns, however, and have been trying to work my way through some of the ideas.
Last Thursday, I could be found sitting on my floor, embroidering a giraffe into a painted piece of cardboard as the Thirsty Thursday tradition raged around me. One boy stumbled into my room and pronounced loudly that my giraffe was a whale, before laughing raucously and lurching away. I brewed myself a mug of tea and complacently listened to the screams drift up from the McCormick quad, trying to ignore the somewhat confused looks sent in from the hallway. Now don't get me wrong, I can enjoy a glass of wine too, but you'll find me with my nose in a Wine Tasting book and sampling cheeses with my uncles and aunts instead of chugging back a beer at a frat house.
I can only imagine what will happen when I move onto my next craft: a 15-foot-long knitted scarf for my Dr. Who-obsessed brother (do you sense the nerd gene in my family?). I suppose they'll just stop talking to me altogether at that point, writing me off as a lost cause. Perhaps they'll petition for me to be sent off to the Ozarks or somewhere, where I can knit sweaters and watch the Food Network to my heart's content without confusing the standard order of things.
I have to wonder what will happen as I age. Will I continue to age normally, but have this head start of about 40 years? Will I act like a 70-year-old when I'm 30, eating prunes and losing my dentures at a bridge game while everyone else my age is settling down with a family? Or will I pull some kind of Benjamin Button act, devolving into a Jonas Brother-loving, text-addicted 60-year-old?
Regardless of the various possibilities, I can't see a situation in which I will actually fit in with my contemporaries. But that's OK with me; I'm actually just fine with not following the pack. Instead, each Thursday night, I'll settle in with my knitting needles and my Earl Grey to listen to commercials about reclaiming one's youth, as the sounds of drunken rabble filter in through the window.
Emily's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at e.churchill@cavalierdaily.com.
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