When I'm 64

Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Untitled (Portrait of Ross)

Today I bought a package of Werther's Original at Ye Ole Bed Bath and Beyond. For reasons still inexplicable to me, I opened the package and poured it's conveniently wrapped contents into a small bowl. I then preceded to place that which you might call a candy bowl on that which I do call the coffee table. It was at that exact moment I realized that my fear of turning into my mother had instantly suddenly changed into my fear of becoming my grandmother. Mon dieu! What had I just done? What person of my age in their right mind would do such a thing? OK maybe candy in a bowl. Something neat like an obscure Japanese candy. But Werther's? That's like, so, Florida. It's the kind of candy that's so unloved, no one, not even the most sugar-starved two-year old would reach for. The kind of candy that stays in the bowl—which is precisely its purpose—well beyond the expiration date...
...of its original purchasers.

Sigh.

Sometimes I wonder. Just how dotty am I gonna be? I mean, how bad are things gonna get? I can handle cutting out newspaper articles on any possibly relevant subject and mailing them incessantly to my descendants and I could deal with becoming an old crank who cusses up a storm in line at the bank teller to anyone who is willing to listen. But what if I decide 2 dozen feral cats is an appropriate number of roommates? Or what if I start seeing the Virgin Mary in my pancakes? I mean, what if I start turning to Talk Radio for an answer?!

I already have no qualms about using expired milk for my cereal. And I do have a tendency to hoard. For chrissakes, it was only today when I caught myself gesticulating wildly while talking out loud in search of the perfect salad spinner (not found!) It can't be too much longer now!

Granted, there are things to look forward. Mostly they consist of finally not giving a shit: about what you say, the way you look, or what people think about you. So what if I wanna wear a Real People t-shirt over a hot-pink track suit with alligator cowboy boots? Who cares if I decide the local PTA meeting is an appropriate podium for my erudite theories about pasteurized cheese? And really, who would mind if I zydeco danced my way down the aisle at my only daughter's wedding?