Geriatric teenager has a wise-beyond-her-years approach to life

Here’s how my daughter is spending the pandemic: feet up in a recliner covered by a warm blanket, crochet needle in hand, watching Blue Planet while drinking strawberry lemonade from a Mason jar with a straw.

The thing is, this is pretty much what she was doing with her spare time before the lockdown. She is 19 going on 70, a geriatric teenager.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with this. In fact, as a father still inclined to worry over the health and safety of his children, it suits me just fine on many levels.

While other kids her age were going out to parties and getting bombed — remember when that was still possible? — she was either working (at a drugstore, it almost goes without saying) or crocheting away at home.

On the rare occasion she would go out, she was usually the designated driver, often coming home early to regale us with stories of the drunken teenaged tomfoolery she had witnessed.

It’s just weird, given the gene pool.

Both her mother and I were social party animals when we were her age. My wife used to sneak out of the house to meet friends late at night — yes, including boys — while I was often the author of the inane intoxicated stupidity my daughter now so openly mocks. She would have thought me ridiculous (even more than she does now.)

It’s not that she doesn’t drink, it just happens infrequently and in moderation — a few glasses of pink Moscato wine that I’m thoroughly embarrassed to buy at the liquor store.

She likes to smoke a little weed now and then, mostly because it makes the crochet patterns more interesting. Also, snacks.

Need more evidence of her wise-beyond-her-years approach to life? She likes museums and art galleries. She’s an excellent baker. While she listens to modern popular music, she mixes it with a healthy dose of Frank Sinatra and Michael Bublé.

Her favourite time of the year, it goes without saying, is the holidays: we start listening to Christmas tunes in June.

Her idea of a fun day out? A tour of the local thrift shops, discount clothing stores and craft places: she gets giddy when good yarn goes on sale. Those habits have left her with a wardrobe that I would describe, charitably, as “retro kitsch”: her favourite piece is an 80s era fleece jacket with zip-off sleeves. It’s so uncool, even I won’t wear it (she makes it work, though.)

Again, you’ll get no complaints from me about any of this. I enjoy looking at old neat stuff and pretty pictures. I can eat my weight in oatmeal cookies and fresh-baked pies. I got a handmade blankie for my birthday. My music tastes have expanded past the bad rap and grunge tunes of my youth.

But none of those things happened until I was at least 30. She is, by any measure, a decade ahead in terms of taste and a lifetime ahead in terms of maturity: she knows, to the penny, how much money is in her bank account and her credit card balance is zero and will remain so.

There is part of me that worries that she’s missing out on the rite of passage that comes from irresponsibility. But I also sometimes wish I’d gotten my act together sooner (such as it is.)

All and all, having a geriatric teenager is pretty great. But there is one old person thing she does that I could live without, though: complain about the weather. No, you cannot “feel it your bones” if it’s going to rain.