old. . .

I feel it. . .

When I wake up in the middle of the night and my arm is asleep under me. And my bones creak when I wake up in the morning.

When Luke tells Jack that he is "going to be an old man" on his 8th birthday (and if he's old at 8, what does that mean when I'm 40?).

And when I see the "boy" in front of me at the baseball game texting someone at the speed of light. Thumbs a-flyin. Paragraphs of thumb-sputtering text. In seconds, I tell you. I was awestruck. Especially when it takes me three tries and 20 minutes to send a sentence of four or five words.

Old, I tell you.

And what does this "<3" mean?

I see it all over online. In emails. (And on the scoreboard at the baseball game????). My brain tells me it has to be some kind of "math thing". Which also isn't "my thing". But I know I'm wrong. Because saying "less than three" all the time just doesn't make sense.

I'm old. Technology is passing me by. . .

"In my youth," I laughed when my mom couldn't figure out how to program our VCR to record her soap operas to watch when she came home from work in the evening (Tivo was still a twinkle in some baby's eye at that point).

And here I am. Old. Text-o-logically illiterate.

Sam and I laugh that the boys are going to be rolling their eyes and groaning when we can't figure out how to use our "new-fangled" transporter to come visit them in our old age.

I guess "old age" has arrived a little sooner than I anticipated.