That *%#& Baby Boomer Label!

Ugh. I hate being called a Baby Boomer. 

Number one - I am not a baby, but a grown woman, thank you very much. With a birthday racing forward in the shortest month - the one crammed with holidays. My fridge calendar for February will be inked with a Super Bowl get together, wistful notations of New Orleans parades I'll miss, Valentine's Day, and my birthday, all squished between dentist appointments and college campus visits and deadlines for scholarship applications. 

Number two - what woman wants to be called a "boomer" ?? I'd prefer all references to that certain ... energy, shall we say?... that accompanies my anatomy to be a bit more dainty and delicate. Sigh... Faced with a parade of teenaged girlfriends my boys bring by the house is enough reflection for me, thanks. Boomer... no, thank you. 

My birth year is at the end of that period, when we Baby Boomers overwhelmed the 60's with our banana seat bikes and freedom to ride them all over the neighborhood at all hours of the summer nights, fearlessly - except for our fear of our parents. If you were lucky you could duck past them, dive under the covers, and manage to survive their good night kisses without letting them smell your SweetTart breath, because then you'd have to get up to brush your teeth, and then Mother would discover you hadn't taken your bath the way you were told at least twenty times - well, she was talking to thin air, because you were outside riding your banana seat bike down by the canal, catching tadpoles and turtles and running screaming from Keith (who you secretly crushed on) who'd caught the biggest king snake anybody had ever seen, and cut off its head, and was chasing you with it, its long body still curling and spasming....

Boys.

All you want to do is relive that kiss you and Keith had - that awful, chin bumping, nose smushing, surprisingly wet kiss, and you don't want to brush it away with Crest or wash away the feeling with Camay, but Mother's having a hissy fit...,

Mothers.  

Maybe the best thing about being a Baby Boomer is the fact that we survived it. 

But being a - I'm calling it a BB here - is to make a choice between living in the past where telephones were small appliances stationed on the kitchen counter next to the fishbowl and Grannie's Sunbeam mixer, or in the present where I point my Goggles app at a mixer in the store and see ten prices listed at ten different retailers  -- and decide for that price, I can buy my son a college textbook and make my old handheld mixer do for another birthday cake. 

It's an alien language in a different world, and the learning curves don't seem to ever smooth out into a straight path so I can accomplish what I set out to do for the day. 

So please be patient with me. I'll think I have the hang of it, and then along comes an update. Why can't my One Note just be left alone in its elegant, simple glory? Why does Windows make my working screen spontaneously disappear? 

Ugh. 

I blame it on Boys. 

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