I’m drinking a post-lunch cup of coffee and watching Murder She Wrote.

Forget turning into my mother. I’ve skipped right on and have become my mother’s grandmother. Except I didn’t really skip, because that aggravates my trick hip.

Truthfully – and thankfully – I feel great, both physically and emotionally. I said great, not stable. I’m as emotionally unstable as the rest of you, and it works for me. I’m afraid my mind is old, though. Like watching-an-all-day-The-Golden-Girls-marathon old.

In general, I see no problem with my elderly tendencies. Are these things really so bad?

I like to eat early, like lunch at 10:45 and dinner at 4:30. But this is good, right? They always say to eat dinner at least three hours before bedtime, so 4:30 is perfect.

I’m not joking about watching The Golden Girls and Murder She Wrote. Make fun if you want to, just don’t call me after 8 p.m. for a taunting session, because I’ll be under an afghan, watching the Hallmark Channel.

I don’t like to drive at night. Nor do I like to drive fast. If the radio is too loud, I can’t see.

Now, before you write me off completely, I have not…

Forsaken fashion for comfort. I’m still willing to blister my feet if the shoes are cute enough.

Begun getting my hair set once a week, or wrapping it in toilet paper while I sleep.

Started sending money to that nice looking preacher man on TV.

Additionally – and this one is a big one – I can still work [most of the] electronics and new-fangled gadgetry. I am not afraid to pause live TV, fearing that if I pause too many times I will never catch up, rendering me forever behind the rest of the world. (P.S. – Mom, it’s okay, really. You can pause the TV. Go ahead, give it a try.)

So why am I concerned?

Because I’m not yet 40 and I’m addled. And crotchety. And would rather be under the duvet than on top of the VIP list for the latest hot spot.

In 40 more years, I’ll be eating dinner at noon, going to bed at 4 p.m. and waking up at 2 a.m.

I’ll stand on my front porch, complaining about the noisy kids until small children become afraid to retrieve rogue baseballs from my yard. That is, if in 40 years children still come with legs rather than just two giant video gaming/texting thumbs.

And I’m pretty sure I’ll still be watching Murder She Wrote reruns, although they’ll all be stored on a chip in my brain by then.

I just hope I won’t need my grandchildren to show me – repeatedly – how the brain chip works.