I spent Thanksgiving Sunday at my adolescent home participating in festivities with my family.
Somewhere in all of that it occurred to me:
I don't belong here.
Have you ever gotten the feeling that you had to have been switched at birth?
They talk weddings, pregnancies and work. I talk quadratics, Hamlet and bodies.
They are blatant in their discussions on say, the usefulness of reproductive organs. My eye will twitch, my face will flame and I will blurt out something silly (in this case: the number of years it will take before I can identify one of them if they get tossed into a wood chipper).
My son - still the only grandchild - wants to talk armpit farts and the digestive process of well... of anything. I am happy to oblige.
This is followed with a chorus of: "Don't encourage him!" or "Your mom is being gross, E-Man!"
What happened to the days when I could sit around the table at East Side Mario's and, with the help of friends, clear the section while we chewed through all you could eat pasta dishes and discussed decomps and floaters?