Recently, my mother said that my sneakers looked “sweet.” She wasn’t done.
“Really, I like them a lot,” she said. “Tom, don’t they look hot? That’s how you say it, right?”
Tom is my 52-year-old father. He stared at me and we both shook our heads in disbelief. Once we overcame a fit of obnoxious laughter, the episode made me think:
Is she too old for slang?
My mom, Maureen, is 50 and a daycare specialist. I like to call her “the nicest lady you’ll ever meet.” Too lofty a compliment? She has saved my grandmother’s life, adopted six doomed kittens from a local pound and still washes my boxers from time to time. Beat that.
Has she become too wrinkly to sound cool? Is that even possible? Am I a jerk for even considering such horrible things?
Unsure of where to turn, I went straight to the horse’s mouth for the answer. The horse wasn’t too thrilled with me.
“Brendan Thomas Kuty,” she said, sounding the way I assume every mom does when miffed with her son. “When I was your age…never mind that. No, I’m not too old. Wash your own boxers.”
Humbled, I walked to my room. Still searching for the right response, I put my head on my pillow and pondered. Nothing. So I figuratively looked in the mirror and judged the judge.
In about three months, I’ll be 22 years old. I’ll have one semester left before I graduate college and become a real adult, with real bills, real debt and a real job -- at least I hope. But, I’ve decided, I’ll still be allowed to call women “honeys” and men “homies.” Why?
Because people I went to high school with will still be in college. I figure as long as I’ve got some type of connection to the college scene, I’m hip. I’ll still be attending parties that feature a keg, celebrations that feature cheap beer and rapper Jay-Z’s latest tunes thumping through speakers.
And because my generation will have birthed the day’s slang, until a new wave of colloquialism takes hold, mine will still be prevalent.
My mother, on the other hand, is well beyond those days. Her favorite music was first released on eight-track tapes. Her idea of a wild time includes a wine cooler, Chinese food and re-runs of “The Bachelor.” She wears clogs.
Of course, there are some exceptions to the rule. Not all 50-year-olds should be forbidden from sounding down with the young crowd. Barack Obama is 47, but I hope our president still refers to basketball as “hoops” and rap music as “hip-hop” as long as he’s in the Oval Office. The kids need someone to rally behind. Oh, and Bruce Springsteen can keep on saying whatever he wants. The Boss still owned the Super Bowl at age 60, even though even he came off a touch corny with his “Put the chicken fingers down!” opening line.
Now don’t get me wrong. While I’ve decided my mother’s too old to sound cool, I understand that I’m getting gray in the hair and that sooner rather than later, I’ll look less-than cool.
Just ask my little sister, Briana. She’s 14, a freshman in high school. Briana put Beyonce Knowles’ latest compact disc on the other day, prompting me to shout as I walked by her room: “Beyoncé is fine!”
Briana stared at me and shook her head in disbelief.
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