Whenever I am asked who I am, I never really know what to say. I’ve never been good at sports or drawing, the things that set my family and friends apart. The things I am good at and enjoy doing would paint a portrait not of a 16 year old, but of an old woman. I can’t say that it would be misleading. When pressed, I just shrug and say that I’m the girl born a good 60 years too late.
Throughout my life I have picked up hobbies that only add to the old lady persona. I was taught how to knit when I was four by my Nan, then progressing to sewing, embroidery and the mother of all old lady traits, quilting. At the age of six I had more in common with my Nan and her friends then I did with my classmates. While my friends went to their jazz and tap dancing classes, I was learning what kind of batting was the best for making Crazy Quilts.

As I grew older, I didn’t grow out of my old lady ways. My sister and I would watch hours of syndicated T.V. Anything from “Get Smart” to our long time favorite “The Dick Van Dyke Show” would be viewed. Nothing could prepare me though for the hidden treasure that was “Golden Girls”. The minute I felt a connection to Dorothy Zbornak, I knew there was no turning back. Bea Arthur became my role model. She was graceful and dripping with wit and sarcasm. I desperately wanted to be like her, a happy medium between her role as Maude and Dorothy.

I’ve learned to incorporate age appropriate possessions too. The only real, solid proof is in my room. Pan around the room and the eye takes it all in. The first quilt I ever made is draped across a pink, regal looking chair that is used exclusively for listening to Gracie Allen and George Burns on “When Radio Was”. Next to it are the stacks of books, Agatha Christie and Alexander McCall Smith mingling with the guilty pleasures of teen novels. The closet holds clothes from antique stores and flea markets as well as from American Eagle. On top of the dressing table sits a bulky record player, playing everything from Al Bowly and Cole Porter to Sid Vicious and The Smiths. The treasured movie collection though will never be age appropriate. I will always choose a good George Sanders movie over a new, now cliché romantic comedies and it will always be Cary Grant and Clark Gable over George Clooney.

I have come to terms with who I am, the so called youngest little old lady you will ever meet. But I still have to and will always have to stop and explain my Oscar Levant reference. I won’t let it bother me. So I just let that record needle drop, and soon Cole Porter is crooning “Night and Day” and all is right in my world