Two week's notice! (Several years away.)

OH, MY GOSH.  Thanks for stopping by!  Allow me to introduce you to my new baby - starting with that What-The-Heck name:

SPONGE BRAIN:  A person who soaks up copious amounts of varied information in hopes of acquiring a killer hobby at some point before she dies.  Her fingers are crossed in perpetuity.

STRETCH PANTS:  An article of clothing (cousin to the tights) that soaks up nothing and magically refuses to wrinkle.  Usually worn by persons in desperate need of serious fashion tips.

I very recently discovered that I was born during the Baby Boomer era.  Useless fact?  Mmmmm hmmmm.  TOTALLY useless fact?  Perhaps.

I had somehow managed to avoid this tidbit for an entire half century - maybe because I've always tuned out forty-somethings who worry about being "taken care of" in old age.  Like their children were born to be Insurance For Ancients.  Far be it from me to ruin anybody's surprise, but I've occasionally felt like "taking care of" a few of them myself.

I had reduced them in my mind to mere Riders on the Whiner Express until I found out I was one of them - even if I am kind of close to the caboose.

Every once in a while a really weird panic sets in near the front of the train, often having to do with retirement.  I canNOT figure out why, after barreling for years toward a life of leisure, some oldsters freak completely out when the station shows up.  It's as if they insist on manufacturing their own personal 1972 all over again:  Somebody's mom is stomping down the smoke-filled basement steps and we are all so busted!

Sorry.  Wrong crisis.

During said Golden Age freak-outs these weirdos beg to be left at their big, wooden desks in the tall glassy buildings by the hot parking lots for just one more year.  Then one more after that.

Not me.

I am going to be READY when retirement comes.  And I am going to spend the teensy bits of free time I currently have investigating what else there is to do.  Then I'll report back here every Friday so that no matter what age group you now inhabit, you can test drive new hobbies right along with me.  Virtual us!

Perhaps I'll start Gen Do-Over.  Do-Over Generation.  D.O.G.  (And maybe I'll be the only member.)

I started working more than 40 years ago, and I figure I've got roughly 30 years left on the planet.

Operative word here?  ROUGHLY.

I deduced that number using the hidden-secret part of my brain, and I'm not entirely sure it's the part that's supposed to be trusted with numbers.  I was one of the guinea pigs involved in the 'New Math' bomb dropped on fourth graders in the 1960s, and I shall happily sign autographs of attestation.  In fact, my eyes still have tiny broken blood vessels from the initial shock.

Google 'New Math' and you'll find the highly reliable news site, Wikipedia.  (Spoiler alert:  New Math involves the following words of explanation:  modular mathematics and abstract algebra.  At least the alliteration worked.)

One article defines the experiment as "a brief, dramatic change in the way mathematics was crammed in after those crazy Russians embarrassed us with that whole Sputnik fiasco."  (Everything in quotes was paraphrased so I am legally excused from Wiki jail.)

Holy COW!  I had no idea that's why they scrambled our still-mushy brains!  (And here I thought my blog's YOUNGER readers had their Googling cut out for them.  Ppppsssshhhhtttt.  You could knock me over with a feather right about now.)

So, from what I remember - we didn't actually multiply or divide the numbers.  That was sissy stuff for Communists!  Instead, we closed our eyes and sort of visualized the numbers.  They were herded around our heads in little cliques.  We tried coaxing them into marching along number lines.  We felt that we were the numbers, and we did all this while saluting an American flag for the entire 30 minutes each day.

All I could see when I closed my eyes was how happy some of the numbers were to be chosen, and how disgusted others were at holding hands with their neighbors.  Those fives were especially persnickety - and do not even get me started on the eights.

The easy part was discerning whether the numbers were boys or girls, if they had families, how many loved their jobs, which ones were heartbroken - anyway, New Math recently helped me calculate how long I'm going to live.  I'll break it down for your regular brains like this:

My mother is approximately 30 years older than me.  She is still alive.  That would practically guarantee me at least three more decades - especially since projected life span increases with each generation.

Then I simply subtract several years for all the beer I drank in college.  This is where the numbers get a little less cooperative since I don't subtract anything for the beer I drink now, but that beer is cancelled out with spinach smoothies every morning, so - according to New Math - I'm good!  (In college I tried cancelling everything out with Peanut M&Ms and full-sugar Pepsi.  It worked extremely well for all lecture content in a certain Economics class.)

So.  Those of you for whom the terms 'modular' and 'abstract' ring a bell should understand my reasoning perfectly.  I have about 30 years left from every single day that I say 'hello' to my mother and she says something - anything - back.

Now.

Knowing what a great sense of humor the Universe has (you can Google this one, too!), there is an excellent chance my mother will outlive me - in which case I hope she takes over this blog.

On top of not complaining half to death like everybody in my generation, Mom also knows how to use an adding machine.

(Next Friday I'll report on my first class:  Write Your Memoir.  Subtitle:  Am I At The End Of My Life ALREADY?)