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Life and death
Jun. 20th, 2006 11:06 pmPregnant!Manager brought in the DVD of her sonogram today. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's very nice that she's finally pregnant after trying for goodness knows how long (it's been at least a year, but maybe more). That being said, there are limits. 1) I can't even get that excited about the indistinguishable forms on my friends' sonograms, so forgive me if I'm underwhelmed at the prospect of viewing that of one of my managers'. Seriously. 2) Is there no mystery left in the universe? Geez. I don't need to know that much about the contents of a relative stranger's uterus.
On the plus side, I don't have to attend the little show. L has an appointment during her lunch break today, so I have to stay here and bravely man the telephones. Woe and angst. I won't get to see the smudge on the screen that's really a baby if you look very hard.
Again, don't get me wrong: babies are a Good Thing™. Moreso when they happen to other people. I'm always very happy for my friends when they become pregnant and when their babies are safely delivered, and Heaven help me I even enjoy hearing all the cute baby stories for years afterward. I just can't summon the same enthusiasm for a work colleague I barely know, and the woman won't shut up about it for ten seconds. She's five months along and it feels like it's been five years.
On the other end of the spectrum, I got the distinct impression last night that my parents have become the depressing kind of old people who read the obituaries to see which of their friends, family, or acquaintances have died recently. I can't explain how my father knew of the death of a distant relationship otherwise: he said that he saw it in the obits. This means that he was actively reading that section of the paper, something I never knew him to do before.
My parents are officially old.
It's weird, because I can't bring myself to think of them as old. My father is going to be 65 in September, and my mother is somewhere around 63 although she refuses to admit her exact age (don't ask, it's a long story). They don't seem old to me. Middle-aged perhaps. But old to me means my grandparents: the ones I knew either hobbled slowly with the aid of canes, stooped and aged, or else couldn't walk at all under their own power. Their hair was grey and white, their faces impossibly wrinkled, their hands and arms covered in liver spots. They were dignified and remote, and were treated with the utmost respect and not a little awe.
Somehow I can't put my parents in the same category as that. Yet, it occurs to me that my father is now the same age that my grandfather was when I was born, give or take a year or so.
What seemed very old to me a few years ago no longer seems all that far away.
On the plus side, I don't have to attend the little show. L has an appointment during her lunch break today, so I have to stay here and bravely man the telephones. Woe and angst. I won't get to see the smudge on the screen that's really a baby if you look very hard.
Again, don't get me wrong: babies are a Good Thing™. Moreso when they happen to other people. I'm always very happy for my friends when they become pregnant and when their babies are safely delivered, and Heaven help me I even enjoy hearing all the cute baby stories for years afterward. I just can't summon the same enthusiasm for a work colleague I barely know, and the woman won't shut up about it for ten seconds. She's five months along and it feels like it's been five years.
On the other end of the spectrum, I got the distinct impression last night that my parents have become the depressing kind of old people who read the obituaries to see which of their friends, family, or acquaintances have died recently. I can't explain how my father knew of the death of a distant relationship otherwise: he said that he saw it in the obits. This means that he was actively reading that section of the paper, something I never knew him to do before.
My parents are officially old.
It's weird, because I can't bring myself to think of them as old. My father is going to be 65 in September, and my mother is somewhere around 63 although she refuses to admit her exact age (don't ask, it's a long story). They don't seem old to me. Middle-aged perhaps. But old to me means my grandparents: the ones I knew either hobbled slowly with the aid of canes, stooped and aged, or else couldn't walk at all under their own power. Their hair was grey and white, their faces impossibly wrinkled, their hands and arms covered in liver spots. They were dignified and remote, and were treated with the utmost respect and not a little awe.
Somehow I can't put my parents in the same category as that. Yet, it occurs to me that my father is now the same age that my grandfather was when I was born, give or take a year or so.
What seemed very old to me a few years ago no longer seems all that far away.
