First you're carded by the waitress at Applebees, then a store clerk calls you "Ma'am," and one day you hear yourself remarking, "Can you believe I used to think thirty was old?" Your kids' friends call you Mrs. H and you find yourself screaming up the stairs to turn that music DOWN!
I've realized with equal parts dismay and disinterest that I don't "get" texting, and I don't care. Proponents of texting find it a delightful, fun, and entirely necessary mode of communication while Mrs. Fussypants here dismisses it as rude, ridiculous, and completely useless.
I haven't just crossed the generation gap, I've leapt with so much force my feet have sunk several muddy inches into the other side of Curmudgeon Canyon.
Also? Fifty isn't that old at all.
Dinner last night: heavenly halibut, cous cous, peas