I Really Am Old Enough to Be Your Mother

I was hit-on last night. While watching my husband race at the Speedbowl. By a boy.

Now, I don't mean "boy" in the cute way that women sometimes use to mean "non-threatening and attractive young-ish man." I mean a BOY.

Something horrible happened a the speedbowl last night, namely the kind of accident you hope won't happen, with ambulance upon ambulance and fire trucks and the yellow flag going to red and everyone frozen while the jaws of life cut the top off the car while the paramedics wait with a backboard to strap the driver onto and rush him to the hospital.

Fortunately for me, it was not my husband. He was stopped on the opposite straightaway, where a group of reprobate 8 year olds taunted him through the fence.

Unfortunately for some other woman, it was *her* husband, and I waited in the pit, standing on a concrete ledge and biting my knuckle and silently praying that he was OK, and that she would have some assurance that he was OK very soon, and that they didn't have children in the stands.

The Boy walked up to me, grinning in a way that was simultaneously cocky and insecure.

Boy: Hey. Did you see the accident?
Me: Yeah.
Boy: Wow. What happened?

Whereas I felt desperate as soon as I saw the car go into the wall, he seemed excited by it, which was my first tip-off (along with the absence of stubble on his chin) that he was every bit as young as he looked.

I gave him the condensed version of what I had been able to glean from watching and asking the occasional person who came off the track.

Me: They say he has some paralysis, but it might be temporary.
Boy: What's that?
Me, silently: Not much of a student, are you? (out loud): paralysis is when you lose use of your arms or legs, usually after a spinal cord injury.
Boy: Wow. That would suck.
Me: Yes, it would.
Boy: 'Cause then everyone would be like, "What happened to you?" and you'd have to be like, "I did it racing at the Speedbowl."

I studied him. He studied my breasts.

Me: Hardly worth it, huh?
Boy, nervously jerking his gaze back up to my face: Yeah, it would suck.

I went back to watching the rescue efforts, he went back to watching my breasts. This was funny on many levels. It was funny because he was so painfully unsubtle, so obvious, all oozing hormones and social gracelessness. Such a gangly puppy. It was funny because when I was 16, I was the girl teased for being flat-chested. It was funny because I have never liked my breasts, not when they were perky but small and not now that they're National-Geographic ex-nursing-mother specimens.

So I studiously ignored him while crossing my arms over my chest to create cleavage. Somehow it felt like a little bit of justice for all of his female flat-chested classmates. (Assuming there are still any flat-chested 16 YO girls, given bovine growth hormone and endocrine distruptors.)

He swallowed. I heard his throat click.

Boy: How old are you?
Me: Guffaw.
Boy: No, I mean, you know, I was just wondering, I mean, not to be...
Me: 34.
Boy: [silent slack-jawed awe]

Now I must share with you, good readers, my brother's response when I relayed this incident to him:

Brother Nathan: Wow, Sis. Did you ever read about that tribe that could only count to three? They had numbers for one to three and then a number for 'everything greater than 3'. That's what you are to this kid. He has: 16-you can drive. 18-you can vote. 21-you can drink. 25-you can rent a car. Then he has 'everything greater than 25,' and you are *way* the fuck greater than 25.

Now back to the boy:
Boy: Wow. I mean, Wow. You are a lot older than I thought you were. I mean, I thought you were a lot younger than that.

He sized me up and down. I fought the urge to tell him I had to go change my Depends.

Me: Thanks. That's sweet. How old are you?
Boy: 16.

Phrases run through my head like, "I am twice your age!" and "I am old enough to be your mother!" I am stunned by the fact that I can be this much older than someone who has already reached sexual maturity (defined physiologically). But I always hated beign condescended to, and I don't want to be condescending now that I've reached Geriatric Status.

Me: Wow. That's exactly how old I thought you were. I was going to ask, but I didn't want to be rude.
Boy: It's not rude! I mean, I was just curious...
Me: It's OK.
Boy: Who are you here watching, anyway?
Me: My husband.
Boy: Oh.

Long pause. Breast-assessment.

Boy: What number is he?
Me: 46.

Pause.

Me: Think they'll run the rest of the laps?
Boy: Yeah. After they get the guy off the track. 'Cause it would suck for the rest of the drivers if they didn't.

I haven't had a chance to observe a teenager this up-close in years. Probably since I was one. It is breathtaking to me, the narcissism, the shallowness, the utter invincibility. If I had been a driver on that track, I would've been hard-pressed to finish the race. Having kids, I would be hard-pressed to race at all after seeing a colleague potentially paralyzed by an accident. The mental math is, for me, very simple: Not Worth It.

But for The Boy, the math is equally simple: Won't Happen to Me.

I study him. He drives race cars, too. He is just starting out. He compains to me about how his coach won't let him try to pass yet. Says he is not consistent enough. Yet. To The Boy, this is Bullshit. Consistency is, to him, worthless. One good pass justifies ten bad attempts. Consistency is icing on some very adult cake that he does not have time to frost.

For two people standing in a small-town speedbowl pit, coming from the same area, the same racial and cultural backgrounds, we could not be more dissimilar.

Boy: Are you always back in the pit?
Me: No, usually I bring my little girls [closer to your age than you are to mine, I add silently].
Boy: Where do you sit?

I point out the end of the section of bleachers by turn 4. The paramedics load the injured driver. His wife rides with him in the ambulance. I say a silent prayer that he will be alright. They resume the race.

Boy: Your husband's a good driver.
Me: Thanks. He's a smart driver, but he's not overly agressive.

The boy's father/uncle/much older brother has wandered over and hears this. "And that's fine with you, right?" he asks with a knowing grin.

Me: Yeah. I don't care if he finished 5th or 25th as long as he walks off the track at the end of the night.

The Boy stares at me, slightly less slack-jawed than he was after hearing of my advanced age. I know what he's thinking: We could not be more dissimilar. He is thinking, NO Guts, NO Glory. I am thinking, Save the guts for when they really matter: Being a father and a husband.

The race is over. My husband drives off the track. I say good bye to The Boy and shake his slender, smooth-skinned hand.

He grins a sheepish grin.

Boy: So I'll see you next week. I'll come see you in the stands.

My brother offers this interpretaiton, later: It's easy math for him--if you are in the stands, then he knows your husband is in the pit or on the track.

I laugh at this. Such a puppy. I send The Boy a silent wish that he will never be strapped to a backboard and carted off the track, but also that he will learn that he is mortal, and someday may even be 34. In dog years.