The magic and myth of 18

Lori Borgman

There is a silent wedge that often weasels its way between parents and kids during the later teen years. It is the Magic of 18.

Whether it is in the water, the air, or the last few swigs of Mountain Dew, the message is clear – big things are going to happen when you turn 18.

Oh yeah.

When you turn 18, you can vote.

When you turn 18, you can buy cigarettes.

There is a lot of hype about turning 18. Sometimes it comes from the culture, other times it comes from the schools.

When our son was a senior in high school and facing a third knee surgery, we told him to make plans to keep up with his classes, especially calculus. “Get extra help,” I said. “Find a tutor, if you need to. Do whatever it takes.”

A week after he returned to school I said, “How’s calculus?”

“Calculus?”

“Yes, calculus.”

“Oh, I’m not in the class.”

“What do you mean you’re not in the class?”

“You said do whatever it takes and it took dropping the class.” (Score one for the power of literal interpretation.)

“Why didn’t we know about this?” I asked.

“The counselor said I could make any change I wanted and that you and Dad didn’t need to know because I am 18.”

Yes, big things do happen when you’re 18 – and your mother exploding may be one of them.

I told him we didn’t care what the Twenty-Something counselor in stiletto heels at the local high school said, we still needed to be in on major decisions.

When young men in my father’s generation turned 18, vast numbers of them were on ships bound for World War II. Some at the front of my generation were headed to Viet Nam. And today ,a smattering but significant number of 18-year-olds headed to military service as well. But times have changed and, for the most part, today’s 18 is not your father’s 18. From 15 years of teaching college students, I can tell you that young people are maturing later. They may be more sophisticated, but they are not more mature.

Maturity means full development. Included in this maturity would be delayed gratification. Young people are maturing later. They may be more sophisticated, but sophisticated is an exterior, it is not the same as the internal maturation process. This is not a slam, it is a reflection of a societal shift. Young people have been cocooned, sent from this organized group with people like them, to another organized group with people like them, and had structure here and structure there. They have had so many of the lumps of life removed from their path that a large portion of real life experiences have been delayed. They are still maturing. They are not ready to be completely cut lose and start running the family farm. At the time of launch they may be 18, but they are still a work in progress.

Here’s the catch to being 18 today. Kids feel like adults, look like adults and sound like adults, but when they’re still living under their parents’ roof, eating their food, using their electricity, water, washer and dryer and probably driving their automobiles, it is a far cry from self-sufficiency and independence. For obvious and not-so-obvious reasons, parents and kids still need to be connected in preparation for the final launch.

This concept of connectedness, even at 18, was once recognized by colleges that served “in loco parentis” from the Latin, meaning “in the place of a parent.”

Used in a sentence: “Because Biff’s parents were 200 miles away, the dean of men acted in loco parentis and disciplined him for breaking curfew, public drunkenness and vandalizing the carport at the Tri Delt house.”

Used in another sentence: “Colleges and universities no longer act in loco parentis, because the kids are all 18.”

There are some tricky waters to navigate at 18, education matters, work options, personal finances, lifestyle choices, medical care, and preparation for leaving home. While eager to paddle their own canoes, until they are completely independent and self-supporting, young adults still need occasional help steering from mom and dad.

"Folkloric" a fashion sweep

Lori Borgman

The clothing catalog before me describes a line of women’s spring fashions as “folkloric”

“The Babushka Doll Collection” would be a far better description.

Picture Russian peasants emerging after the first Siberian spring thaw in the early 1900s, and you have it.

The folkloric look, which is “soft and fluid” according to the catalog, pairs big patterned, puffy skirts with long, loose blouses trimmed in yards and yards of flounces and ruffles. This bulk is topped with a little vest and a big chunky belt that cinches the entire flour sack look smack dab in the middle.

How is it that we so quickly went from “less is more” to “pile it on”?

This is not to say that the folkloric look totally lacks appeal. On the up side, you could gain 30 pounds in these clothes, and nobody would notice.

I recently saw a picture of supermodel Tyra Banks modeling a rather folkloric outfit. A No. 2 pencil has more body fat than Tyra Banks, but the layers of fabrics and ruffles made Trya look like a candidate for Slim Fast. If folkloric can do that to a thin woman nearly 6 feet tall, imagine what the look will for average types or those of us who barely clear the 5-foot mark.

Should I lose my senses and suddenly embrace this folkloric look, I imagine my new silhouette would resemble the Liberty Bell swooshing from side to side as I walked, sweeping the floor beneath me.

I try not to be hasty in dismissing new trends outright. I have found it prudent to pause, ask myself a few critical questions, and then dismiss such trends outright.

Today, as I ponder the pros and cons of shrouding myself in yards and yards of fabric, I ask myself the following:

Is this a look that will turn heads? Definitely. Heads will turn and say, “Lady! Over here - there are some cigarette butts and paper cups on the sidewalk.”

Will this look become expensive in that it will require accessories? Possibly. The look all but screams for clunky bracelets, a peddler’s wagon and tambourines with streamers.

Is this look merely pretty or is it functional as well? Oh, it’s functional all right. The full skirts would leave one well-prepared for last-minute square dancing as well as offering a ready-to-wear parachute should the plane go down.

I had just about sold myself on the possibility of the look, when I turned the page in the catalog and saw what the men will be wearing this spring. They will be wearing – hold on to your folkloric straw hat -- traditional khakis, shorts, classic polos and button-down shirts.

Not a single one of them is wearing a baggy chemise, topped by a vest, and loose-fitting pants tucked into the tops of boots. Apparently the men will not be joining the women this season on the journey to soft, fluid, romantic and folkloric.

There’s no justice.

Trend dismissed.

Cents and Sensibility

Lori Borgman

When I came home Saturday afternoon, the kitchen table was blanketed with stacks and stacks of pennies perfectly aligned in long, neat rows. The husband was pacing back and forth in front of them with his hands behind his back and his reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose. It looked like Cornwallis inspecting a regiment of British Redcoats, or in this case Copper Coats - before the Battle of Long Island.

The husband is only a semi-serious coin collector (semi-serious collectors save coins in cardboard Swiss Miss canisters, while serious collectors save them in dignified 10-pound coffee cans). Still, he takes the business of awarding particular promotion into the blue folders very seriously.

He was so engaged surveying the columns that he didn’t notice I was in the room. I clicked my heels, gave a snappy salute and said, “Problem with the rear guard, sir?”

“No,” he said without looking up. “The problem is with 1982.”

I racked my brain. “War on the Falklands?” I asked.

“Copper and zinc,” he said.

He then turned toward me, balancing a penny on the tip of both index fingers as though I should know what this meant.

“A penny for my thoughts, one for each half of my brain?”

“No. Which one is zinc?”

As I would soon learn, before1982, pennies were 95 percent copper and 5 percent zinc. During 1982, mints switched the composition around and the penny became 97.6 percent zinc and 2.4 percent copper, so a 1982 penny can be either mostly copper or mostly zinc. And if you’re confused, imagine how Abe Lincoln must feel.

“The copper penny weighs almost half a gram more and I’m trying to tell which 1982s are which. Here, see if you can tell which one is heavier.”

Since I have passed the Diet Pepsi and Diet Coke challenge, and the filtered and unfiltered water challenge with flying colors, I was sure the zinc and copper penny challenge would be a snap.

I put the pennies on my fingertips and could tell immediately that, yes, without a doubt, they both felt exactly the same.

“No they don’t,” he said. “Concentrate. Close your eyes. The copper is on your left; can’t you feel it is heavier?”

I tried again and failed again.

Determined that I note the difference, he retrieved the postal scale to illustrate the point, but the scale didn’t weigh in small enough increments to detect a difference.

Undaunted, he then constructed a scale by balancing an emery board across the tip of a bottle of lens-cleaning solution and laying a penny on each end of the emery board.

“Look at that, can’t you see it tilt toward the copper?”

All I could see was that the ratty emery board probably explained the ratty condition of my nails.

“Maybe I can see a little difference,” I said. “The zinc is on the left!”

“No, the zinc is on the right!”

Though I failed to detect the weight difference, he was pleased I had attempted the feat, just as I was pleased sorting pennies into piles of zinc and copper could bring a man an entire afternoon of entertainment.

All of which goes to prove it is not always necessary to enter into one another’s areas of interest. There are times when it is better to enjoy one another from afar. It’s only common cents.

Hang on Snoopy

Lori Borgman

We are a nation of snoops with a long history of snooping.

The first words ever spoken on a telephone were from the lips of Alexander Graham Bell who said, “Mr. Watson – come here – I want to see you.”

The second words spoken on a phone were from Bell’s mother who was listening on an extension and said, “Alexander -- are you on that blasted phone again!”

Well, not really, but she probably would have if she could have.

Today we listen in at a far more sophisticated level.

It starts with baby monitors in the nursery. We wire our infants’ bedrooms for sound so as not to miss a thing, not a single cry, a gas bubble or a burp.

There are parents who won’t consider a day care without a web cam they can periodically check from a computer at work.

There are other parents who tuck a mini- cam in a potted plant or between books on a shelf in order to monitor the nanny or the babysitter. Sometimes suspicions are confirmed and outrageous tapes of abused children sadly make their way to the nightly news.

At a high-end grocery store not far from us, parents can drop children off at a play center while they shop. Monitors suspended throughout the store enable parents to glance up and check on the kids between picking up packs of chicken breasts and bottles of juice.

We like knowing. We like seeing and we like hearing. Why wouldn’t we? These have long been the means by which we safeguard our families and avert dangers, both real and imagined. It’s monitoring, not meddling.

No, the meddling comes later when the kids are older. Who was on the phone? Where are you going? When will you be home? That is intelligence gathering of another sort. There are times when surveillance simply comes with the turf.

We’re all under surveillance really. We have cameras targeted to catch motorists running red lights, cameras that record activity in bank lobbies, apartment entryways, hospital hallways, gas stations and parking lots.

Our local public high school has nearly 100 surveillance cameras. And they say there’s “nothing on” worth watching.

GPS technology can zero in on your home by satellite, unlock your car and track homebound criminals tethered to ankle bracelets.

We have built entire industries based on our need and desire for surveillance. Inquiring minds want to know.

Yet a recent poll says Americans are split on the matter of our nation’s surveillance of phone calls placed by suspected terrorists.
These aren’t kids breaking curfew or school boys causing a commotion at the back of the bus. These are blood-thirsty terrorists committed to two things: our destruction and the acquisition of nuclear weapons.

When we plant computer chips in dogs and cats that have been lapping at the same water bowl for years and are unlikely to wander away, yet hesitate to use every technological resource available against the very real threat of terrorism, we have a wire crossed somewhere.