Watch Your Mouth

Sunday we had a girl over to hang out with Ev for a bit. She was like 15 and all sophisticated but somewhat shy in a new circumstance. At one point during the afternoon, as I was trying to untangle the wiring of Evan's train set from around the piano, I saw the opportunity to start a conversation and asked if she played the piano. "No." I think Evan then asked if she played guitar or something. "No. I don't play any instrument." she said with a laugh. Seeing the opportunity to make one of my quick witted cracks, I shot back: "Just the stereo, Ev." I don't know if it was the dead silence or the empty look on both their faces that made me shrink. "iPod." I quickly recovered. But it was too late. Like a racial slip by a campaigning politician the comment was heard and the damage done.

I must be at a sensitive age because when speaking to younger people and I make a comment that garners looks of utter mystery I feel, well, awkward. Not especially embarrassed. Not even old. Dated. I just feel dated. The verbal equivalent of a bad hair day or a faded pink robe with applique flowers. I mean, when it comes to music, I refuse to give up talking about albums, the term still has some cache. But "stereo" is kinda like "icebox" for refrigerator or "cream rinse" for conditioner. Say it and you're out. You're a square; your credibility in the crapper; the arrow of your coolness indicator parked at zero. That, and you risk the probability that the person you're talking with will have no idea what you're talking about.

I guess my paying attention to such things is a sign of a healthy, youthful, emotional immaturity. When I get old I'll probably be mature enough that I won't really give a damn what anyone else thinks about my speech, right along with my clothing, grooming or general appearance. Then, too, I'll probably be the one needing a sitter. And I'm pretty sure it won't be a 15 year old girl.