“I graduated in 2010.” From high school? I shriek as I remember how proud I was of my good fortune in managing to complete my undergraduate program in the year 2000.
It’s happening more and more these days. I make a pop culture reference from my growing up years and nobody in earshot knows what I’m talking about.
“What’s The Neverending Story? Is it a good book? I’ve never read it.” These words expose a painful truth. The truth that, at that moment, I’m the oldest woman in the room.
You see, I know that The Neverending Story is not just a book, but also a classic film. A film I watched from a VHS videotape on a tube television after I got off the bus while I waited at home, alone, for my parents to return from work. As did many a friend of mine who was born in the late seventies.
Young Friends
Not all of my friends know these things. They are my young friends. Some of them are young enough to have been students in my first third-grade classroom – my first teaching assignment after graduating from college.
These friends teach me about Tick Tock and Instagram. They talked me into trying dip nails instead of my classic shellac at the salon. And they know where to get the best deals on diapers. Many times, their oldest child is roughly the age of my youngest child.
I value their friendships. I appreciate their energy, their fashion sense, their vulnerability, and their excitement for the parts of motherhood that have become all but mundane in my many years on the job.
I love cuddling their newborns and bringing meals to their growing families as they add to their brood. I love regaling them with stories about the days before the internet and how my school didn’t have enough computers for everyone, forcing me to learn to type on an actual typewriter.
Old Friends
I love laughing and learning with my young friends. But my young friends are not enough. I need my older friends too.
Sometimes I need my friends who’ve also had a mammogram. Sometimes I need my friends who remember my life before I became a wife and a mother. Sometimes I need my friends who were alive when the Challenger tragedy unfolded.
My older friends know what I mean when I tell them to “take a chill pill” or “gag me with a spoon.” They know how much it costs to cover ever-increasing gray hairs at the salon. And they know how to read a retirement account statement. Many times, their youngest child is roughly the same age as my oldest child.
I value their friendships. I appreciate their wisdom, their classic style, their confidence, and their counsel about the parts of motherhood that lie ahead.
I love watching their children grow into young adults and bringing snacks to their many coming of age celebrations. I love reminiscing about the days before we all drove minivans and spent every weekend chasing our kids around the metro watching dance competitions, soccer games, and speech meets.
I love laughing and learning with my older friends. But my older friends are not enough. I need my young friends too.
After all, one is silver and the other gold.
