Spending time with my children and their friends is a terrific way to make me feel old and out of touch. I find out so many new tidbits about my personality, though, that I am compelled to do so as often as they’ll let me.
For example, I never realized that I was a racist. This has become the de facto retort whenever I comment on my son’s habits and the friends that they came from. I am admittedly a grammar snob, so when I hear the English language being butchered, I’m not shy about calling attention to it. One of my biggest pet peeves is the use of “Aks” instead of “Ask”.
It was quite jarring to hear that come from my 8th grade son’s mouth. He’s a master chameleon with his language habits, word usage, and even body posture, adopting the mannerisms of whatever group he’s with at the time. Those three little letters to me sound so, well, lazy. And wrong. Does that mean I’m a racist?
According to my son, yes.
While I vehemently disagree, it does illustrate my tendency to be a major nit-picker. Proper language has been very important to me ever since my broadcasting days in college. It took me nearly a year of hard work to eliminate the “R” in “Wash”!
I can’t stand it when I hear people, men and women alike, lapse into the “Honey” or “Sweetie” routine automatically, making their voices into sugary concoctions designed to induce diabetes. I’m a regional-ist, if that is even a word, since I have a hard time taking anyone with a strong southern drawl seriously. My own father used to drive me crazy with the slow, deliberate pacing of his words. Now I realize that it wasn’t a lack of intelligence that drove his pace. He just refused to let his thoughts outrun his words, choosing them carefully in order to achieve clarity, rather than speed. Even with this pet peeve, I find that the longer I live in Texas, the more entrenched “Y’all” becomes in my daily conversations.
After a day of hanging out with my daughter and her band at Six Flags on Saturday, I really began to feel like a fuddy-duddy. I am apparently a tattoo-ist, too. Perhaps I’m just unable to commit, but would I really want to have angel wings forever engraved on my shoulder blades? Or worse, a large Yosemite Sam emblazoned on my bicep? The gentleman who had a tarantula tat dangling from a spiderweb behind his ear probably isn’t too concerned with my critique, but I guarantee that he’s not getting the prime income-earning positions in the work force.
I already knew I was a weight-ist. As a child, I was uncomfortable around people with more chins than limbs. As I have matured, I have nearly overcome this prejudiced view, which has a direct correlation with my own dance with the scales. But whatever happened to dressing modestly? After looking at the majority of arms in the amusement park, sleeves must not come in XXL. Better to show off those becoming tattoos, obviously.
Just because I have realized yet again that I can be quite judgmental doesn’t mean that I can’t change. Awareness is but the first step to eliminating a bad habit. But you’re still not going to find me at the tattoo parlor.
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I'm a tattoo snob, too. Even though I have one, I thought about it for 2 years, then spent another 2 figuring out what I wanted. I can always tell when someone's walked into the tat studio, looked at some flashes, and says, "That one." If you're going to carry something with you forever, it should be meaningful!
ReplyDeleteDid you see Bizarro today with the tattooed imaginary friend? So true.
ReplyDeleteI'll take George "Worshington" over "fixin' to" any day. My mom always hung out the worsh. She just did it. She was never fixin' to hang it out.