THINGS CHANGE

I am an old man.  When I was gradually going through the aging process, many things were different than they are now.  Some of the changes are physical, and we are all familiar with them. Twenty five or thirty years ago when my sons were all but camping out in the University computer center accessing news groups, learning basic and other languages, I sat in my office and using my IBM typewriter and never dreamed that I would have a computer or two,,,,,or three, as I do now.  (I still miss the Commodore 64 that was my first computer with no discernable hard drive, but with disk drives and ultimately a zip drive.) but Things Change.

I really want to talk about social things rather than tech things.  When we had our first son back in 1957 (or 8, my memory is another of those things that change) It was still in the era when pregnant women advertised their pregnancy with smocks, muu muus, slacks and skirts with elastic expansion joints in the front   I thought that my bride, with or without those clothes  was twice as sexy as she had been before (and She was sexy).  I supported her through six pregnancies, and my admiration (and sympathy, when, as is normal, sometime she was so miserable) never ceased.  But still, the world of smocks and maternity clothing was just the way things were.

I have gradually become used to the new style of  tight t shirts and the elimination of “maternity clothing” but for an old conservative duck it wasn’t always easy.  Young women eight months pregnant with bikinis  took a little more getting used to, but I have trained myself not to stare.  I have gotten “with it” I thought, but last week in Panama City, Janet and I got on the elevator at the sixth floor a young lady who looked like a fourteen year old (I’m sure she was older, but—) got on the elevator.  She was wearing a bikini that was functionally invisible.  At best it could have been the model for the old song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini.  She protruded for what seemed to be yards out in front.  She smiled and said “Hello”. which I answered with a mumble and a spectacular blush, which she noticed and giggled.  I don’t know where Janet was looking, but I counted the bolt heads in the ceiling of the elevator, carefully examined my shoes, my finger nails, and whatever else was handy in my determination not to stare. (Which I probably did, at least a little).  No matter how much things change, I don’t think I have time (Having already used up my biblical three score and ten years) to ever get used to eight or nine months pregnant ladies who look like pre-teens and who ride down in the elevator with me wearing bikinis that are invisible at the bottom and miniscule at the top.

I am trying to be “modern” but “that modern”  is a hopeless cause.