I Don't Belong Here

Even though Robert and Louise's lust and fate deposited me into this time slot on earth (1945-?), I don't feel that I belong here. I was born fifty years too late. Oh, I adapted because isn't that what we misplaced misfits do? Sorry. I didn't mean to include you as a misfit. Everyone knows how well you fit into this texting, tweeting, hash tagging, facebooking, googling, twerking, bff-ing, lol-ing, :)-ing, fake reality tv, high speed world. But enough about you; let's talk about me, shall we?

I have never fully adapted to this thoroughly modern world; I faked it. I'm sixty-eight years old now and I'm still faking it (don't tell Tom). I'm tired of pretending. I live here but I don't fit in. I speak the language, but this technologically advanced, faster than the speed of light, self-indulgent, materialistic lifestyle is foreign to me. Had I been born in 1895, I would have missed all of this, this, this...what do you even call what is happening here?

2013: DINNER AT A CROWDED SITTING-ROOM-ONLY RESTAURANT

"I don't belong here," I said while listening to a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with me.  The conversation had been pleasant enough: fine wines, five-star restaurants, Broadway plays, art galleries, mutual funds, European vacations, luxury cars, designer bags, favorite reality tv shows. Then without warning the conversation took an abrupt right turn and life, as the baby boomers at the table knew it, came crashing to the floor. Well, it hadn't actually crashed yet but it was imminent--#THESKYISFALLING. With the vivid imagery of what's to come, everyone at the table could now marinate in all the gory, graphic details of the upcoming apocalyptic horrors until a few sensitive stomachs threatened to upchuck that delicious filet mignon smothered in tantalizing Danish garlic cream reduction sauce. Have you heard what's for dessert?  "Better than sex" chocolate, chocolate divine cake. Decaf anyone?

"I don't belong here," I said again but no one heard me. Too many people talking at the same time with the volume turned up. Too many opinions of the same flavor--was it vanilla?--yet some had peanuts sprinkled on top while others had pecans. So even though they were the same flavor, they were just different enough to make the anxiety palatable to almost everyone.

"I don't belong here." Well, to be fair to those around me, I was mumbling to myself so possibly no one heard me.  As I age the brain filters that used to protect me from inappropriate behavior and comments are starting to lose their effectiveness. They're almost seven decades old now so it's possible they may be a little clogged. Making a proclamation that "I don't belong here" could be one of those comments that should be blocked. Not wanting to embarrass myself, I decided to sit silently, tug on a long nose hair, and mumble to myself, "I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here."

After excusing myself for a trip to the lady's room, I returned to Tom's and my table for two. My husband sat speechless as he watched me take my chair from our table and squeeze myself between two boisterous baby boomers at the next table over. As I sat listening to Doom, Gloom, Crash, and Burn, my husband leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder, "Sweetie," he said. "You don't belong here." 

"Oh, no. That's not true. I do belong here. Have you heard what we're having for dessert?"