Somewhere between 6, 80

By Editor | May 13, 2026 |

By Columnist Ariel Schellenger • I suppose this is my official application for the sewing circle.

I just didn’t realize I was applying until I was already halfway in.

Somewhere between raising a six-year-old boy, driving around town like I’m unofficially monitoring local activity and having strong opinions about stop signs… I’ve landed in a very specific stage of life.

Not young. Not old.

Just… somewhere between 6 and 80.

And apparently, there’s a whole system to that.

It starts with coffee.

Highland Diner. 9th Street Café. Troy McDonald’s. Same people, same seats, same conversations—weather updates, light gossip and important commentary on who parked like they’ve never driven before.

If you know, you know.

And if you don’t wave when you drive by?

You should.

Because I wave at everyone. Especially out in the bottoms—that’s basically my territory now.

If you don’t wave back, I take it personally. I’ve even considered taking my wave back… which doesn’t make sense but it feels right.

Now, I should probably be honest about my “sewing circle application.”

If there are certain people I don’t particularly enjoy, I will absolutely mention it—politely—and then spend a solid half hour discussing it like it’s a community meeting.

Then I leave.

Gracefully.

Mostly.

On the way out, I consider calling my daughter to come meet me, because her brain works suspiciously like an old man.

Which is concerning… because she’s 12 and going into 8th grade.

And if I keep bringing her to coffee meetups, she’s going to be 80 by middle school.

So I try not to.

Now, let’s talk about my biggest daily challenge.

My opponent is six.

And still undefeated in emotional volume.

We have serious debates—like whether blue is better than purple.

(I’m right, by the way.)

He disagrees. Loudly. Passionately. Like this is a constitutional issue.

And somehow, I’m fully invested every time.

At this point, I’ve accepted that this is just part of life.

Along with assuming every loud noise in my car means I blew a tire.

No investigation. Just panic.

And yet—despite all of this—I’ve settled into the rhythm of small-town life.

Waving. Noticing. Keeping track of who’s out.

Driving certain routes just to see what’s going on.

Checking the bottoms after storms like I’ve been assigned the job.

And then there’s that corner in Highland.

It used to be the Ponderosa buffet—back when eating out meant unlimited rolls and fully committing to “just one more plate.”

Then it closed.

And for a couple years, it just sat there while everyone drove past thinking the same thing:

What’s it going to be?

We all waited.

And now it’s a CVS.

Of course it is.

Because somehow, that feels like the most accurate transition possible—from buffet dinners to picking up prescriptions and whatever you forgot you needed.

I’ve watched that one corner go through multiple stages of life, and I don’t remember signing off on any of them.

I try to make friends my age—I really do.

But eventually, I say something that makes people look at me like I’ve time-traveled in from another decade.

So I usually just say,

“I’m going to go be friends with your mom and your great aunt. They’ll understand me.”

And honestly?

They do.

If you ride my bumper, I will slow down.

Not aggressively.

Just… educationally.

It doesn’t work.

But it feels like it should.