Maybe it's just me then

The results of Tuesday's election made one thing perfectly clear to me: I am not in touch with the times. I'm out of the loop, unhip, a political dork. I'm a loaf of Wonder Bread two weeks past its expiration date in a world dominated by organic multi-grain artisan bread.

What is alarming to me is not that I simply disagree with the new President's position on this policy or that. Nope, it's worse: I just don't get it. When the question is asked about what experience, what insight he offered (other than a vague promise of change), all I heard was the sound of crickets while other people heard a symphony of..well, I'm not sure. Something else that got them excited and charged up. While half the country is singing his praises, I'm walking around with a bewildered Homer Simpson expression on my face.

Clearly, I'm out of step. I'm marching to the tune of a different drummer. I've become officially un-hip.

I've suspected my un-hipness for some time now. I passed up a pair of gorgeous shoes on the clearance rack because they had ankle straps. In years past, those shoes would have called out "Sexy Shoes! On Sale! Must Have!". Now all they say to me is "broken ankle". I move on, shuffling past the sexy shoes in my search for something with good arch support and a sensible heel.

I possess a considerable stash of the very pinnacle of unhip and not cool: knee high hose. Even though I know how dorky they look and despite my firm declarations in my (earlier) hip and cool days about being caught dead wearing them, I love them. Knee high hose, I can't quit you but I promise to draw the line at wearing you with dresses. God help me resist the temptation.

I flip through People Magazine in the waiting room at my dentist's office and wonder "who are these people?"

Morley and Heather know all the lyrics to songs on the radio that I've never heard before in my life, but I hum along with tunes played on the 1940's channel on XM Radio--and I wasn't even around in the 1940's. I'm not only out of touch with the current times, I'm out of touch with my own time. Bess Truman called: she wants her era back.

And there's more.

I like red meat and white bread.

Text messaging bewilders me. When I get a text from my daughter, I automatically pick up the phone and call her which, she tells me, defeats the whole purpose of a text message.

It bugs me when parents fix a plate for their children before anyone else gets to eat, instead of the elders going first like they did in the good old days.

I use phrases like "good old days".

I secretly think Brit Hume is totally hot.

My newfound un-hipness shows up in my social life too. Recently a group of people I didn't know showed up for a dock dinner and my unhip reaction to this new crowd was to channel June Cleaver. Their racy language and jokes sent me into a June-like retreat to join the group who had gathered on our boat to discuss politics, the economy, thermonuclear physics--anything unrelated to body parts or what you do with them.

(Of course if I'd really been June Cleaver I would have handled it totally differently. First I would have sent a subtle signal of discomfort by fingering my pearls and smoothing my apron, and then I would have tossed out a distressed "oh, dear". And if that gentle hint didn't do the trick, I would have said "Wally! Beaver! Both of you go to your rooms right now!". Then I would have dispatched Ward up there to wash their mouths out with Palmolive soap and beat the ever lovin crap out of them send them to bed without their supper.) June, you the bomb girlfriend.

Sorry, stray neuron. Where was I? The election? Right.

So even though my guy doesn't get to sit in the big daddy chair, I still respect the office of President. We've elected a guy whose only accomplishment as far as I can tell is to write two books about himself a hip new President and for the next four years I will do my best to keep an open mind while keeping my hand over my wallet and see how things go. Even though I didn't vote for him, it is in everyone's best interest to wish him success.

And now I need to strap on some knee highs and get to work. I want to get home early tonight--I hear there's a Matlock marathon tonight right after Ed Sullivan.