Little Kids

You might think by the time that I’d reached my six-foot height, people would think I was a grown up or at least getting there. If not then, maybe when I graduated college and got a job, a light could have flickered on the idea. My mom and dad were fairly sure about it. My son’s teachers knew when he went to school that I am a full-fledged adult. Somewhere along the line, even my brothers—older, older and younger, older—begrudgingly gave up the fight to believe I am a 12-year-old kid.

But some people just have it in their heads that everyone who is not them should do as they’re told. They treat everybody like little kids. Whereas, I believe that when it comes to my life, I get to pick. I know. It’s silly of me.

I might get more of this belittling treatment than some people do because I generally overlook the behavior of difficult people. I pretend that they are my mean, old Aunt Genevieve—the nasty old witch—the one we had to be nice to when we were kids. She was our mothers’ sister and that was respect. Well, it was respect for our mothers.

These Nasty Aunt Gens are constantly telling me what I should do and what I think. They tell me I’m selfish when I don’t put them first automatically. When I don’t think their thinking because I actually know something that disproves it—I’m just complaining. If they give me something I didn’t ask for, didn’t want, and don’t need, I’m expected to gush thank yous, or deal with pouting, self-pity, and snarky, snide remarks. No reasoning, explaining, or cajoling works with these lemons. They have only three speeds—neutral, used when they sleep, showering insecure affection, and totally hurt and upset.

It’s my nature to give them a place to stand. I usually find a way to see what made them that way, like I did for my wretched old Aunt—she really was sick in the head. There was no fixing her.

But the last two Nasty Aunt Gens I’ve met have been in their twenties. They were products of too much self-esteem. They were emotional bullies. They got their own way by switching gears from aggressive to hurt to aggressive again without letting anyone else breathe. I'm old now. They tire me out. My patience is thinning—in their case, rather that than my hair.

Imagine! Little kids trying to push me around just because I’m nice. HUH! Even nice people aren’t nice all of the time. Don’t they know that?

I’m going to spend tonight watching W.C. Fields movies so I can practice one thing.

“Go away, kid. You bother me.”

I think this idea might have some potential.

Maybe not, but a girl can dream.

—me strauss Letting me be