The incredible shrinking, aging, saintly parent of teens
I wanted to make stovetop s’mores, but I couldn’t reach the graham crackers on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. This led me to ask, “Am I who I say I am or who others say I am?”
I think I’m of moderate height, whereas the day this column appears in print, I will have only 16 more days of not being the shortest Fisher-Paulson in existence. “Sixteen days?” you ask. When I first started writing this column, I was taller than half of the Fisher-Paulsons, those being my sons Zane and Aidan. But every Jan. 1, we conduct the “Talling of the Boys,” making marks on the bathroom door to show their upward momentum. Zane passed me up a few years ago. In 2021, Aidan came close, but I squeaked out an extra micron. But he’s been stretching out those leg bones, and it is almost certain that on the first day of 2022, I will be relegated to the status of “short one in the family.” (Side note: Even after having one of his toes amputated, my husband, Brian, is still taller than I am.)
In the kitchen, Aidan rolled his eyes, reached up and handed me the Honey Maids, but he knows I won’t concede until after “Auld Lang Syne.”
On Tuesday, I picked up all our prescriptions at Daniel’s Pharmacy, and some 22 pill bottles later, I walked over to the Walgreens on Geneva Avenue. Even though Daniel’s is an excellent apothecary, it doesn’t sell gift tags.
Walgreens was out of gift tags, of course, but still I filled a basket. The salesclerk rang up my wrapping paper and chocolate bars, and as I pulled out the debit card, he said, “Wait! I haven’t put in your discount.”
“As a deputy, I don’t accept — ” “Not that. Your senior discount. It’s the first Tuesday of the month,” he said, as if it was perfectly obvious that I was in the age bracket for a senior discount but less certain whether I knew what day it was.
Now if you asked me how old I was, I’d admit to middle age, maybe even late middle age. Maybe even the outer, outer, outer, outer edge of middle age. But certainly not senior.
As it turns out, I could have been getting this discount for the past eight years had I only known what day of the month it was.
The way we perceive ourselves is seldom the way we are perceived. Third instance: Sister Lil finally agreed to a lunch date. You think you’re busy? Try getting on the calendar of an Ursuline nun.
We went to the Boulevard Cafe in Daly City. The Christmas decorations are nicer at Original Joe’s Westlake, but they both have a just-south-of-San Francisco feel, and Boulevard is about as comfortable as it gets. Its lunch menu is longer than a James Joyce novel, but me, I go there for the breakfast. If you go to Westlake Joe’s, have the Joe’s Special. If you go to Boulevard, have the Blvd (omelet, that is). Brian ordered the biscuits and gravy, and Sister Lil ordered the lamb burger, because “you should always order Greek in a Greek restaurant.”
Before the lemonade got served, Brian and I complained about Zane’s recent all-nighter and Aidan’s grades. Sister Lil, who has known the boys since they each terrorized Mrs. Lamb, the firstgrade teacher at St. John School, smiled and told us, “This too shall pass.”
“I don’t know, Sister. I don’t think we’re built to parent teenagers.”
“What you two don’t realize is you are saints,” she replied.
My omelet came, the caramelized onions gleaming, the cheese quivering, and all was right with the world.
Sister Lil was wrong, of course, and that’s rare for her. She just sees me in a way that I am not.
I’m not really short. Not until Jan. 1, at least. And I’m not really old. I just pay 20% less on the first Tuesday of the month. And to misquote Mae West, I’m no saint. Maybe a reluctant saint at best. No stigmata. No halo.
But Sister Lil sees the good in me, and that’s what’s important. The fact that she believes this fiction of my sainthood makes me believe I might be better than I am.
If you asked me how old I was, I’d admit to middle age. But certainly not senior. The way we perceive ourselves is seldom the way we are perceived.