Aselin

I have reached that stage in parenthood when I'm not as cool as I used to be. This realization came as quite a shock since I have been super cool for most of my life, but recently an unnamed teenager has let me know that I'm completely socially unacceptable AND mentally retarded. Despite the fact that I watched countless other mothers go through this rite of passage, I've been caught off guard with how sudden my fall off the pedestal has been.

To my credit, I have remained a safe, un-connectable distance when I'm in public and keep a paper bag with eye holes cut out just in case someone they know walks by.

The challenge with our arrangement is that this teenager still needs me. A lot. So, I hang around.

Because I don't know "anything" it's really a waste of energy to pay attention to what I'm saying. Many of our conversations go like this:

"Hello darling teenager, you should wear a jacket."

cricket chirp, cricket chirp

"Oh, teenager, It's sub arctic temperatures tonight, you might want a jacket."

cricket chirp, cricket chirp, eye roll

I'm getting better at just cutting my losses and waiting by the phone for the dramatic, urgent phone call requesting a jacket delivery, but I'm not perfect yet.

The reality is there are a few times when I have something really important and relevant to say. Things that enrich even a teenager's full life.

This week while sitting in a waiting room I fought a valiant, but losing battle against Entertainment Weekly Magazine, for the teenager's attention. As I made small talk, I mostly got vacuous silence back so of course I started upping the ante.

First I commented on the photos in the magazine. Nothing.

Then I commented on the text of an article in the magazine. Nothing.

Then, I started saying more absurd things to see if they might actually be listening and just pretending to ignore me. "Hey, I have an orangutan on my back." Nothing.
"My molars are wearing kilts." Silence.
"I myself am radioactive and my children came from Mars." Even this news of their origin didn't get a response.

So I sat, trying to entertain myself through other means when of course... Elvis walked in. I'm so not kidding. Some guy, who clearly had a night job as an Elvis impersonator - or a higher than average affection for The King, walked through the waiting room. He was in normal clothes, no jumpsuit, BUT he had the jet black dyed hair, mutton chop side burns and the quintessential fat Elvis sunglasses.

I leaned over into the teenager's space and hissed through the clenched teeth of discretion, "Elvissssssss!!!!"

Nothing.

"Psssst!!!! Hey, Elllllvvvviiiiisssssss!!!!!!"

Nothing.

In desperation I threw an unsportsmanlike jab with my elbow while trying a third time, "el-VIS!!!"

The physical contact was the ticket. They looked up, said "What?" and then "Hey, Mom...look! Elvis!"

My work is done.