My children are old enough to spill over on both sides of the 50ish-age range, and I’m a great disappointment to them. I work at it. It’s my job and I take it seriously.

I don’t travel … won’t travel … and that’s not normal. Golden-agers are supposed to hook up with travel groups; throw their walking shoes, a couple of three-piece, wash-and-wear outfits into a suitcase along with a sack of pharmaceuticals; pin their traveler’s checks to their underwear; drape their cameras over their shoulders, and fluff off to far away lands in a flurry of goodbyes and promises to send post cards.

I know that because I read it in an illustrated AARP magazine, but that’s not me. My children travel. I don’t.

They also have flower beds lush with whatever’s in season, and they keep all of it pruned and/or deadheaded to perfection. My own green thumb is 100 percent plastic.

I stick artificial stuff in the urns on either side of my mailbox, in my window boxes, pretty much anywhere the watering system doesn’t reach, and throughout the house wherever I want a touch of green. Also where there’s stuff I want to hide behind it.

In addition, I have not one ounce of music appreciation in my entire gilded-ager’s being. I used to, but that was before 12-year-old vocalists regressed to jungle chants and discordant, frenetic screeching.

Not only are my children’s vehicles and their entire house and yard wired for finely tuned mega-decibel sound, but they also have state-of-the-art TV reception.

Also, they wear their cell phones like jewels in their ears, removing them only to snap photos. With a cell phone, for crying out loud!

I don’t require pristine TV reception for the shocking stuff I glide past on my way to “Animal Planet”; anything country/western is welcome to play on my car radio, and I use my plain vanilla cell phone as I would any other utilitarian object. When I can find it.

Unless the battery’s dead or I’ve turned off the ringer, I usually do find it by calling my cell from my land phone, so that’s no problem.

Still, assuming I do find it and it’s working, there’s cause for rejoicing when it rings and I’m able to access it before it goes into voice mail mode. Now that is a problem.

There’s nothing my children’s mega-faceted computer can’t do, but who needs it?

My ancient Macintosh works fine unless someone e-mails me a video or anything complicated. I’d hook up the speakers my son gave me after the dog chewed up the last pair if I cared.

My keyboard lets me type these columns in Microsoft Word and my DeskWriter 600 prints them — plus numerous inky streaks — for proofing.

When Cox Cable isn’t improving its services, Outlook Express keeps me in touch with friends and Internet Explorer keeps me current.

My children drive squeaky clean cars and they keep them serviced.

I don’t drive all that much, so before my car’s bi-annual trip through the car wash, I have the oil changed 1,000 miles or so sooner than the sticker suggests.

They’ve quit nagging, but my children don’t approve of my eating habits either.

Their pantry and refrigerator are packed with enough natural, nutritional stuff to gag a goat, and it’s all I can do not to remind them that most people die of natural causes.

But what I really, really want to tell them is, “Do the math, Sweeties.

“I’ve lived more than two decades longer than either of you, so I must be doing something right.”

(Marjorie Anderson is an Edmond resident.)

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