Hey Reader,

Age is weird.

In my teens and twenties, when I was going out to meet friends, my dad would raise his eyebrows like he’d just seen a pan of fresh-baked brownies and ask (only half-jokingly), “Can I come?”

He’d claim he felt as young as me and my friends, which I thought was f’ing weird. How would you feel like you’re my age when you’re 37 years older, popping Rolaids, and mostly bald? And you don’t know who Madonna is?

Now, I kind of get it. In one way, I feel like I always have. Same personality. Probably same repeating thoughts. My sense of humor hasn’t matured. Neither has my husband’s, and he’s nine years older.* Neither of us can hear the word "loose" without saying "loose stool." Whenever Steven makes me help fold the fitted sheet, he calls it “Grandma’s flaps” and makes up songs about it.

Everybody loves…Grandma’s flaps, Grandma’s flaps, Grandma’s flaps. Everyone’s folding Grandma’s flaps, Grandma’s flaps todayyy!

(Move over, Taylor Swift.)

On the other hand, when I get a coffee (before 4pm or I’ll be up all night) and hear the 20-something baristas talking about a party in Bushwick, I feel a million years older than they are. The IDEA of putting on “going out clothes” and pre-gaming and then leaving the house at 11pm — you kidding? I’d sooner get a spinal tap.

Speaking of which, I saw Spïnal Tap live at the Beacon in 1992. I’ve had my shingles shot. I was born the same year Sesame Street debuted and seven when Saturday Night Fever came out — same year Elvis died. My favorite restaurant is an old-school red sauce Italian joint with so-so-at-best veal piccata, but a drop ceiling and no music — so you can “hear yourself think.” You can also overhear the 90-somethings at the next table complain that the prix fixe menu doesn’t include the chocolate mousse or the filet of sole, and feel delightfully young just by comparison. I get excited about comfy shoes. Do I sound old yet?

I’m writing about this because my email last week describing my start as an online copywriter in 2009 got immediate replies from two separate Shrimpers telling me how old they were that year:

Five and ten years old, respectively.

Rude!

I posted about it, and got a lot of sympathy and outrage: “Why’d they need to choose violence?”

One follower DM’d “Boomer alert!” and I had to explain that, no, I’m GenX. Big distinction.

My cousin messaged me the below:

I explained that the youths actually do check (and buy from) email — especially, but not only, 20-somethings in the marketing and copywriting space because they’re studying the form. And those people tend to love my emails, a) because my emails rock and b) because they like the idea of telling stories for a living.

Also, I added, a survey would be a great idea. Always helpful and not weird at all. I have one in my welcome sequence (which I recommend), but why not throw one at you now?

Will you take 2 minutes to answer a few quick q’s? One of them (the only required one) is supposedly rude. Apologies if you’re offended. There's a special surprise waiting for you when you finish. And it's not a coupon for Metamucil!

Thank you!

Now, gotta go — the dryer chime just sounded, which means it’s Grandma’s flaps o’clock.

xoLaura

PS - tl;dr: I want to know how old you are. And some other stuff.

PPS - *Steven’s birthday is tomorrow. For 16 days, he’s ten years older than me (on paper).

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