AGE DISCRIMINATION!

I've been mildly annoyed this week.

Not seriously annoyed. Nobody has wronged me. I haven't written a letter to the editor. Yet. Just a collection of itty-bitty annoyances that have made me wonder whether the entire modern world is being designed by 27-year-olds with perfect eyesight, excellent hearing, and phones permanently attached to their hands.

For example, why can I do something on an app on my phone, but NOT on the same company's website on my perfectly lovely laptop? I HAVE A BIG SCREEN FOR A REASON.

And unsubscribe buttons. Apparently there is a federal requirement that the word UNSUBSCRIBE be printed smaller than one-tenth of a grain of rice, preferably in pale gray at the very bottom of an email.

Then there are restaurants. I like restaurants. I like eating. I like talking to the people I'm eating with.
I just can't do all three when the background music is loud enough for a nightclub and 47 other people are shouting to be heard over it. Could we turn it down just a smidge?

While we're at the restaurant, could I please have an actual menu? I can use a QR code. I KNOW how to use a QR code. I just don't particularly want to spend dinner scrolling around my phone trying to figure out whether the salmon comes with asparagus. And could we turn up the lights enough that I can SEE the menu?

Other tiny grievances:
Why are instructions printed in microscopic type?
Why does everything need a password?
Why does my dishwasher need Wi-Fi?
Why does a light bulb need an app?
Why does it take a knife, scissors and possibly a chain saw to open a package of batteries?
Why do automatic faucets occasionally decide I don't have hands?

Why do websites use light grey type?

Why does “customer service” now mean spending 20 minutes arguing with a robot that keeps saying, “I understand you want help with your account”?  No. You don't understand. If you understood, you'd let me talk to Susan.

None of these things is legally age discrimination, of course. But sometimes it does feel as though the world is being redesigned around people who can see tiny print, hear conversations over background noise, remember 84 passwords, and consider a six-inch phone screen preferable to a 13-inch laptop.

I'm not asking civilization to turn back the clock. I LIKE technology. I use it every day. I would just like technology to occasionally remember that some of us have reading glasses. (And magnifying glasses). And hearing aids. And laptops.

And we still have money to spend.

So perhaps the next time somebody designs an app, a restaurant, a package, a website or an unsubscribe button, they could invite one person over 70 into the room.

We'll bring our reading glasses.

And opinions.

THE BANK OF GRAMMA

Somewhere along the way, without an application, a banking charter or even one of those little pens chained to a counter, I apparently opened a financial institution.
Welcome to the Bank of Gramma.

We offer checking, savings, credit, transportation, emergency funding and extremely questionable lending practices. Our lobby is open approximately 24 hours a day, although management gets cranky after 9 p.m.
My grandsons are now 12½ and almost 16, which means money has become much more interesting than it was when five dollars seemed like a fortune.

The almost-16-year-old has turned to buying and selling used (now called vintage) clothing into an actual business. And I don't mean occasionally selling an old sweatshirt.  Recently he sold a sweatshirt he'd bought for $200 for $625.  I am simultaneously impressed and wondering what has happened to civilization.

Because he's still a minor, his online sales have been going through my account. So every so often the Bank of Gramma receives a deposit that makes me feel temporarily prosperous.

Unfortunately, it isn't my money. This is a terrible system. And he wants cash once it’s hit my account.  I have to replenish CASH almost every week. The good news is that he understands the concept of buying low and selling high better than many adults. The bad news is that I would also like him to understand another fascinating financial concept:

Saving.

He already has a savings account with $500 in it, (courtesy of the Bank of Gramma.) And with driving age approaching, I have visions of him actually walking into our nearby credit union and depositing some of his profits toward a future car.

Yes. WALKING INTO A BANK.

I realize this makes me sound approximately 112 years old. A new branch of our credit union is opening at the end of October and it is just five blocks from home.

Meanwhile, his younger brother has his own financial system. At 12½, his spending priorities tend toward food, drinks and activities with friends. Somehow a few dollars here and there can disappear with astonishing speed.

I can't really criticize. At his age, I probably would have spent my money on something equally essential. Like a 45-rpm record and a bottle of Coca-Cola.

What fascinates me is how much the mechanics of teaching kids about money have changed.

Mr. 12½ rarely sees actual cash. Money appears on his phone. Purchases happen with a tap. He earns his money doing projects for me.  Deep cleaning our pantry and disposing of expired items.  Cleaning my five floor to ceiling IKEA shelving units by taking everything OFF a shelf, cleaning, sorting through and filling the Goodwill basket then putting everything back in better order.  He’s even cleaned the fridge! (I can’t kneel down and get that bottom shelf and the bins).

Clothing is bought online, sold online and shipped to someone they've never met. The teenager can make hundreds of dollars while sitting in his bedroom. And Grandma can sit in her room watching the transactions go through her checking account while muttering, "Whose $87.42 is THIS?"

So I'm trying to teach the same lessons my generation learned, only in a completely different world:

Some money is for spending.
Some money is for saving.
Credit is not free money.

And if Grandma fronts you $20, Grandma remembers (although she does have to write it down these days).
The Bank of Gramma may have generous lending policies, but our accounting department is ruthless.
And she's had coffee.

Things I’ve Learned NOT to Fix

One of the great myths about getting older is that you become wise.  You do not. You simply accumulate a very large collection of opinions based on having already made most of the available mistakes. The problem is that nobody necessarily wants those opinions.

This is particularly difficult when you live with your adult children and their children. I have decades of experience being a mother. I successfully raised a child all the way to adulthood. I kept them alive. I navigated schools, illnesses, teenagers, driving, dating and countless other crises.

You would think this would make me an invaluable household resource.  Apparently not.

One of the things I'm still learning is how to stay on my side of the street.  This is harder than it sounds.

My kidults let the boys do things I would never have considered when I was raising her. Sometimes I watch a parenting decision unfold and every cell in my 74-year-old body wants to stand up and announce:

“I HAVE SOME EXPERIENCE WITH THIS.”

Instead, I am learning to say nothing.

Well, mostly nothing.

For example, I have learned that the precise location of a teenage boy's waistband is not my responsibility.

Apparently pants can now be worn at a latitude that allows the general public to admire a considerable portion of their underwear. I don't understand it. I don't like it. And I have discovered that pulling someone else's pants up is frowned upon.

So I stay on my side of the street.

I have also learned that $50 is apparently a perfectly reasonable amount to spend on face cleanser.

Fifty dollars!

For something whose entire job is to be applied to your face and then immediately washed down the drain. I am from the generation that believed soap had pretty much cracked this problem.

But I don't have to fix it.

Then there is the $170 back to school backpack.

I should clarify. The backpack had previously been purchased by his brother — also used — for $200.

So apparently this wasn't reckless spending at all.

He saved $30.

I am still adjusting to an economy in which a used backpack can circulate among teenage boys for sums of money that I associate with small appliances.

When I was younger, used meant somebody else had owned it first and therefore it should cost less.

Today, we call it vintage.

For $170, I feel the backpack should carry me.

But this morning provided an excellent opportunity to practice my new philosophy.

My grandson is holding a garage sale of his used clothing in our condo clubhouse today. I was under the impression that his father would be there with him.

Apparently I was mistaken.

My first instinct was, naturally, to FIX THIS.

Is he old enough? Is this allowed? Can you actually use the clubhouse to make money? Does an adult have to be present?

So I did what any grandmother attempting to stay out of things would do.

I looked up the Clubhouse Guidelines.

There is no age requirement.  Residents are allowed to hold events where they make money. In other words, there was absolutely nothing for me to fix.

This was extremely disappointing.

So today a 15-year-old is next door conducting commerce while I am in my room trying to stay on my side of the street.

I may need two Tylenol.

And I'm slowly discovering that this lesson extends well beyond teenage boys.

I don't have to fix every disagreement.

I don't have to fix every bad mood.

I don't have to point out every mistake before somebody makes it.

That last one is particularly painful.

Because I KNOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN.

I've already been down that road. I know where the potholes are. I know there's construction ahead. I know the bridge is out. And yet sometimes the people I love need to drive down the road themselves.

Friends don't always need solutions. Volunteer organizations don't need me to correct every inefficient procedure. Other adults are allowed to make choices I wouldn't make.

This has been quite a revelation.

There was a time when I thought being helpful meant helping. Now I'm beginning to understand that sometimes being helpful means keeping my mouth shut.

I am not always successful.

But I'm getting better.

These days, when I feel the overwhelming urge to straighten out someone else's life, I try to remember one simple rule:

Stay on your side of the street.

There's plenty over here that needs fixing.