Resentment

You know, I resent being pigeon-holed. Bracketed. Targeted. By companies, organizations, focus groups . . . I don't like it. Officially, I'm a "post-boomer." I'm 35 (yay 1972!) but they all treat me like I'm 53.

Sometimes Brigitte comments that "Y'know, you look around 28. I married a kid." Well, I'm not, Brigitte, I'm 35. Just because I have all my hair (and lots of it!) doesn't mean I'm a young punk.

Okay, so I might behave like a boomer. Take up man-boy activities such as collecting dolls (uhh, action figures), building model planes, getting heavily into WWII and thinking up what neat electric train I should get my son, but I'm really not.

I love my iPod, iPad and iPod Touch, Facebook, Twitter, Crash Test Dummies (oh, sorry, were they last year?) and grunge fashions from Seattle. I love the old reruns of Murphy Brown and Fresh Prince and I grew up on Duran Duran (the band so bad they named it twice to remind them that the first time wasn't just a nightmare).

But I do get targeted. So what if I have mature tastes? I'm a mature 35-year old. Okay, so my hands, feet and elbows kill me in the morning when I get up and I take a daily regimen of about 16 pills for pain, cholesterol, lack of vitamins, triglyceride levels and anxiety, but hey, 35 is the new 90.

I've been drinking like a snaggle-toothed sand shark for, like 30 years now, but I was always precocious as a child. (At least credit me for giving up smoking when I was 8).

So, Frito-Lay, Proctologists and Gamble, Hasbro and Lionel Trains: quit pegging me in your brackets. I've had just about enough.

LOL.