Dear C,

Your recent comments about hubby stealing your personal stache of Guatemala’s finest has reminded me of a burgeoning problem I intended to bring to your attention – one that could some day require a few soul-searching decisions on our part. In case you haven’t been listening to the BBC World Service recently, you may not be aware of the growing numbers of dead people in the world, and in particular, of the burning issue of what to do with all their bodies. Time was, according to the experts on the show, when a person would be left to decompose where they fell, causing little inconvenience to those around them, apart from the need to say ‘excuse me’ as you stepped over the decaying corpse. But in today’s fast-paced world, where even our most elderly citizens can’t wait to mow you down on the sidewalk with their Segues, you can see why such a laissez-faire attitude to the recently departed simply won’t do any more. Which is why, apparently, some Swedish environmentalists have come up with an innovative method of freeze-drying the human body so that it can be turned into soil, and thereby recycled. (Don’t ask me why the old-fashioned worm method no longer seemed up to the job; perhaps they’re on Atkins, like everyone else). So next time you find yourself in Starbucks, dear C, do not be surprised if the barista serving you enquires whether you would care to have Grandma, yourself or hubby roasted or freeze-dried along with that 1/2lb bag of Indonesian Java. The future of the Aunt Glady’s vegetable patch depends on your response.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

I must first advise that no adult in this house could get by with 110 pounds of anything. Which for me raises the all-important side issue: can you freeze dry bits of oneself prior to death?  I’ve got a section of tummy left over from carrying four cherubs (it can’t possibly be caused by late night ice cream raids) that I could spare immediately.  And, as I find my own obsession with just the right coffee bean insufferable (though clearly necessary), should we consider adding a little of mummy’s tummy to it?  If it’s true that we all come from dust and to dust we shall return, does it make one damn bit of difference if we consume one another, saving our planet from further overcrowding and at last making me feel worthy of my cup of java?

I fear this was a serious-minded endeavor for you, dear P, and you may think my comments are in jest.  But make no mistake: if I could consider the possibility of one morning sipping hubby while reading the morning paper in peace, it might all be bearable.

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

I’ve finally found the perfect moniker to describe our generation of women: Adult Teenagers. Wish I could say I came up with the expression myself, but alas, I happened to read it in a New York Times article today about the dreaded fashion emporium ‘Forever 21′.  For some reason, the article’s author herself seemed unaware of the cultural phenomenon that she had unwittingly named, but then again, a thirty-something woman who still shops in that store is clearly in denial about many  things. For anyone else in doubt, here’s a list of characteristics, to determine whether or not you qualify:

You know you’re an Adult Teenager when:

1) You have your first baby, and immediately start looking round the room for its mother;
2) You are outraged by the demands of parenthood and are still looking for someone to blame;
3) You feel like the first generation of women ever to have had children, and insist on telling the world, ad nauseum, how fantastic/ fulfilling/appalling/ impossible it all is;
4) You insist on wearing low-riders, but spend the entire time yanking your top down;
5) You pretend you’re shopping for your daughter while browsing in Abercrombie & Fitch;
6) Your housekeeper insists on putting away all your clean T-shirts in your pre-teen’s drawers;
7) You still go to rock concerts, but you worry about hearing loss and what to do if there’s a fire;
When something breaks down in your house, you still call your parents to come and fix it;
9) You can’t help feeling you should have made it by now (whatever ‘it’ is);
10) You were raised to believe it was all about you, and you still believe that it is.

Perhaps the scariest part, dear C, is how our children will cope with a generation of geriatric wannabes who can’t even change a light bulb.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

I’d like to say I immediately relate to your opining regarding our demographic, but most of what you claim for us relates, I firmly believe, more to the generation that came before — those narcissists born after the second World War who became hippies. 

Of course my parents were still nearly infants when I happened upon the scene, but they seemed to use my childhood as an excuse to relive theirs.    I definitely have distinct memories of my loving but divorced parents pining after my friends and boyfriends (at least back then there wasn’t the now always possible trauma of dad going after the latter).  Only recently do I believe I’ve raised them well enough to send them alone into the world. 

I do think, therefore, it is now my birthright to experience life as a teenager.  Won’t my own children relish the opportunity to share the experience with mom?  For example, when I Ieave a restaurant and wonder whether any of the three men at the next table are watching my ass as I sashay out of the place, I can giggle about it with one of my daughters.  Things really do come full circle, don’t they?   What again was your point, dearest P? 

Faithfully,

C.    

P,

I think it may still be possible to trounce the generation nipping at our heels, clamoring to be all that we haven’t become, and who generally look better while doing it.  Don’t know from where the lithe young twenty-something specimens came, but today, at yoga, they all appeared to be pasty-faced smokers sent by the local authorities to do penance for their out all-night clubbing sins.  I was, needless to say, overjoyed.  Oh sure, they downward-dogged and even came through for cobra, but wheel was way past their game.  I nearly chortled with joy as I moved painfully through the routine and realized these girls were suffering perhaps more than I.  Have we found, dear P, a level playing field at last?  Light up, young vixens, and make the girls who partied down in the eighties look positively glowing.  Perhaps the twenty-somethings will even rediscover carbohydrates, P.  Not so easy to wear expose the abs then is it, dear ones?

Faithfully,

C.