Driving through my neighborhood yesterday, I found myself stuck behind a v-e-r-y s-l-o-w vehicle. I'll describe it and you try to guess the demographic of the driver:
White Buick sedan,
License plates denoting membership in the Masons,
AAA membership sticker,
One of those "support our troops" yellow ribbon stickers, and
A "Bush/Cheney '04" bumper sticker.
Did you guess a young tattooed and pierced guy? Well, you would be wrong. It was an older couple, probably in their 70s. I know, I know, you're surprised, but I promise it was a pair of geriatrics. In fact, since I had plenty of time to observe them as they meandered through the neighborhood at a sold five miles under the speed limit, I managed to see just about every stereotype possible for the elderly.
The man of the house was driving -- natch -- while the missus sat in the passenger seat. He was wearing one of those brown wool fedora-type hats that my grandparents' generation is fond of. I'm betting he had on a tie and some sort of tweedy blazer. And I swear I am not making this up, the woman was wearing one of those plastic head scarves that old women wear to protect their beauty shop hair from wet conditions. And, yes, the woman was clearly sporting a 70s era 'do that she gets done every week without fail from Evelyn, her stylist of 25 years. Did I mention that they were slow? Yeah, I might have mentioned that. The limit is 25 mph in our neighborhood, but they were moving along at a stately 20 mph, probably because of all those dangerous snow drifts along the sides of the road. Of course, the roads themselves were perfectly clear and dry, with not an ice patch anywhere, but it's still best to be safe and drive extra slow, just in case.
I have no worries that my mother will be furthering old people stereotypes in 20 years. Mom will still be blonde and will definitely have great accessories. In fact, she'll probably go shopping with Elegant. I wouldn't be surprised if she'll be driving either a big SUV or a zippy red Mustang convertible. It's probably safe to assume that I'll be old before her. Can you imagine it? I'll be completely grey and wearing comfortable shoes and my mother will be nagging me to dye my hair and wear some red and purple. I'm sure that Mom will go to California to visit my Aunt Laura and I'll get a phone call from the Santa Barbara city jail, asking me if I'm willing to post bail for two crazy old ladies who mooned a bunch of fraternity guys. And I'll have to lecture Mom and Laura about keeping their wrinkly asses covered. They'll probably give me a Bronx cheer and tell me to stop acting my age.
It will be great.