Why I Fear Growing Older

I fear growing older. Not because of wrinkles, heart attacks, or diverticulitis. I fear growing older because I am a woman from the South and will therefore be expected to:
a) be hospitable to a fault, hosting tea parties and bruncheons;
b) attend all-female parties where everyone talks one octave higher than usual and chats about furniture, paint colors, and joint pain;
and last, and definitely least,
c) wear festive holiday sweaters with great orange pumpkins or reindeer complete with blinking red-noses.

This morning, I was jarred to consciousness not by my trusty alarm clock, but by the voices of 30 women exploring the bed and breakfast and catching up on their lives RIGHT OUTSIDE MY ROOM. What made it even better was when they tried to get into my room (luckily I lock my door obsessively), and then, when that act proved unsuccessful, would belt out "I think this is the Christmas room, but it's locked." Wow. Another favorite is (again, after trying to open my door), "This is where [insert my name here] lives." If this is where I live, why try to open the door? What if I had been naked? Not that I was. Anyway, maybe they didn't actually try to open the door that time, but I was still half-asleep and in an immediately grumpy mood. Who would have thought?

My aunt had a group over for a luncheon today. I walked downstairs (after taking my sweet time getting ready) because I had told her I would help if she needed it. I received some pretty fantastic stares and in return just stared blankly back. My aunt informed me that the woman who was going to come help clean up was unable to make it and would I please help clean up when the women began to leave. Sure. Then they all left the kitchen, I snatched a remarkably tasty chocoalte chip cookie, and dashed back upstairs to cower in my room. I was just settling down to work on some school and work stuff, when all of a sudden, I heard piano music. I had a feeling about what was going to happen. I just held my breath, hoping I was wrong. And then I heard it. Wafting up the stairs, right into my cochlea. They were singing. Actually, I was half-wrong. Only one was singing, but still. I really wanted to stomp out of my room, lean over the rail, and start rapping or reciting The Raven (if I actually had it memorized) or just screaming free associations. "Opera, pointy bras, 1950's, butter, PAULA DEAN!" That would've worked. No more rude awakenings by wanna-be intruders clad in snowman-sweaters.

Once I heard less voices, I snuck downstairs and began washing the masses of dishes. Thankfully, a lady was really nice and helped me out for a litle while. I got a glimpse of what it must be like for that lady who has 19 1/2 children. Except there were more than 19 1/2 people here, I think.

So, dear readers, the moral of this little story is twofold.
1) Memorize "The Raven" and various rap songs to use in case of similar situations.
2) I dread growing older. I also dread ever feeling like I must don a sweater with anything resembling a Christmas tree, a reindeer, an elf, or a snowman on it.