Originally posted on FB, September 1, 2022 • A couple of years ago, my family was in the thick of big transitions. Most of them turned out just fine… for everyone but me. I’m still here, overthinking everything, clinging to my mantra—’That’s a thought, that’s a feeling’—and chasing it down with my morning coffee…

• Written by Lesa Quale Ferguson•

Today, in the precious hour between dropping off Sam and Cal at school, Cal and I stopped by Spot for coffee. The person at the counter—he? she? they?—took Cal’s order, and I was impressed by how cool and direct he was. He’s come so far since getting his CPAP machine. The counter person must have been impressed, too, because Cal got a cookie. On the house.

Then, this same person looked at me and said, “Nice skirt.” No coffee yet, so my thoughts popped; I thought, “Wow, how generous people who are gender nonconforming can be, even in times when just existing feels like a political act.”

I almost asked—flimsy filter, thanks to the lack of caffeine—”Do you feel pressure to be extra nice to foil rudeness? Oh, and by the way, what are your pronouns?” But then I saw a sign: This is a Union Spot. Maybe the kindness was more about rare customer service than anything else.

Either way, I took my latte and backed away before I asked the questions about to erupt from my mouth. As Cal got comfy in his seat, my mind kept spinning. These Millennials, Alphas, and Gen Zers… I’m so in awe of their courage to shake things up. What would happen if I let go of all the societal pressures around aging? What would that even look like?

Honestly, it’s not like I’m conforming now—I run out of the house every morning like it’s on fire, only to realize that all the chaos I’m fleeing from is sitting in the car with me.

I don’t dwell on my age, looks, or body too much. But when I do, it feels like dealing with a 50-year-long hangover—shame, regret, embarrassment. So, I calm myself with the usual: That’s a thought. That’s just a feeling. Then the kids scream, the dog barks, alarms blare, and thankfully, I’m distracted away from a thought about myself.

But what if I approached aging like this new generation— with generosity, curiosity, and grace? What would it look like if I stopped running from it?

My mind wandered back to Dorothy Zbornak and my great-aunt Marg, with her tilted wig, smeared lipstick, and ever-present cigarette. All those older women who had survived something I couldn’t imagine—the Great Depression. There was a sharp wit, blue hair, chunky heels, and a confidence that came from just being alive. They were sometimes too eager to pass down their survival wisdom onto us girls by saying things like, “How are you ever going to find a husband with a job and a pension if you’re swearing like a sailor, hanging out with each other, and wearing cutoffs?”

While waiting for my coffee, I thought, Yep, definitely too much thinking for someone still uncaffeinated.

I grabbed my latte and sat down with Cal. I had no answers. Maybe listening to the next generation will help. Though I doubt their wisdom will involve cigarettes or muumuus. Maybe just the blue hair.