All I can say is, we are blessed for the younger generations and their fearless spirits (otherwise interpreted as nonchalant attitudes)!  Driving to drop my teenage daughter off at school the other morning, I received an earful of my own stagnant and prudish ways.   As she placed her wrapped tampon in clear view in my car, I said to her, “You can put it in the glove box.  No one else needs to see it.”

She wisely responded with, “Why, will we be subjected to the “Tampon Police?”  If only I had been so precocious, when I was younger.  Come to think of it, even now, as an aging—albeit vibrantly healthy—silly mom.  I mean, don’t I have “better” things to worry about?

Her comment brought joy to the early morning and was such a telling statement about where her generation is and where we have arrived from, just a few “moons” ago.

As a young girl, my mother never once discussed sex, with me.  I was blessed enough to find out about Planned Parenthood, where I received all the guidance from counselors to learn about birth control.  The trials and tribulations I learned along my journey.  Even as one grown woman to another, my mother, at a frisky 88, still doesn’t feel comfortable talking about sex.

I realize that not all moms were tight-lipped about sex with their own daughters.  Yet the silent teachings were so entrenched in me, that the best way I could talk about menstruation, bodily parts and sexual feelings were to read books, together, especially books by mother/daughter teams.  

That way, the ideas that are in the books generated a whole new conversation and way of saying it, for me.  Funny, I have always felt comfortable talking about sex; suddenly—maybe it’s because it now “involves” my own baby girl—I can’t fathom just where to begin, or continue or end.  It’s rather ironic as I was comfortable in the role of a “gypsy goddess” rebellious type all throughout high school and now I’m finding myself to be “tight-lipped.”  Is it because I don’t want my daughter doing the things that I found myself doing, when I was her age?  Perhaps.

Thank the gods (and goddesses) that kids are learning this sort of information at school, from their peers, from books, movies and teachers.  Probably what I have to teach and share with my daughter is ancient (well, of course it is!) and she’s better off learning from others.  I do make myself available to questions, however.  I just feel that my answers are sometimes censored, not meaning to be.

The other night I attended a board meeting that I participate on.  Our group’s ages are across the board, from thirties to fifties.  We met outside, on one of the member’s deck, sitting around his patio table.  The weather turned a bit chilly and another member was not dressed for the drop in temperature.  Suddenly she blurted out, “My panties aren’t cold, but my socks are!”  Her comment took me off-guard.  Weren’t we at a professional meeting?  I mean, why would her panties be cold, in the first place (I wanted to ask her).  I asked her to repeat herself and she found it humorous, stressing the word, “panties” just for my benefit.  This woman is a younger generation than mine, by 17 years.  Perhaps that explains her forthrightness.

Am I that old-fashioned?

This morning while listening to National Public Radio, they were talking about the Janet Jackson episode, where her clothing suddenly misaligned with her body—malfunctioned is the word that they used, sort of sounding like a robot, to me—and her left breast was exposed on national television, prime-time, during football season commercial time.

Unfortunately, I missed seeing her breast—I suppose I need to work on my football interests if I want to see things like that—because I would have liked to see what all the fuss was about.  Is her breast uncommonly erected, somehow?  Does it adorn a beauty mark in just the “right” spot?  A sensational tattoo, perhaps?

The best thing about the news report is that while they are—still! After several years!—working on the correct disciplinary action to the network, the only sane words I heard coming from a judge, were, “Nor is it offensive to community standards.”  A fabulous “win,” if you ask me.  Finally, some sense is made out of a natural body part that was exposed for a matter of a few seconds, in the first place. 

It has always bothered me that Americans are seemingly obsessed with the physical attractiveness (or unattractiveness, however they see it) of their bodies; yet also fear them, on a certain level.  Or perhaps they fear rejection from everyone else about their looks.  There seems to be a push and pull attitude; wearing outfits that expose bodily parts to look sexy, yet shying away from any contact with another body, even if it is just bumping into someone else on the train or bus.  Let’s not stand/sit or be too close, most Americans say with their body language.  Yet underneath their clothing is a come-on-over-to-my-place attitude.  I feel blessed that while my daughter is extremely liberal in many facets, she is conservative in her choice of clothing.

So while the younger generation is basically laughing at us old fogies for our close-minded tunnel visions, at least there are still some of us fogies left that are willing to leave their intellectual and emotional doors open. Bring it on, panty woman.