As I was sitting in my rocking chair (I kid you not), trying to teach myself how to crochet (again, I kid you not), I was pondering if I was subconsciously training to be a sweet old granny.  My being a granny is not imminent, but both my mother and her mother were Grandmas at my age.  I started mentally listing my stereotypical Granny-like traits:  I have almost proven I can survive on tea and cookies;  I bake pretty well constantly;  I have taken up wearing an apron frequently when I am in the kitchen (as almost every shirt I own has some sort of cooking stain on it.  I guess it is the old ‘closing the barn door after the horses have escape’ analogy);  I use old analogies (occasionally I mix them up or mess them up, but I still use them);  I am working on giving sage advice, always having a tissue, and the previously mentioned crochet (maybe not doilies, but possibly tea cozies).  A pretty solid list of endearing Granny-like traits.  When I mentioned my list to my son, he laughed and said that while all those things were true, I would totally destroy the illusion as soon as I opened my mouth.