…she ain’t what she used to be. Or is she?
This morning on Facebook someone said their apartment building was old. When asked how old, the answer given was: “It was built around 1943.”
That gave me pause. I was built – okay, born – in 1945. Does that mean I’m old?
Yes, yes, I know we’ve all heard the protests a million times before: But I don’t feel old… My brain hasn’t changed much since I was a young girl… I feel just as sprightly… (Well, maybe not “sprightly” – that would describe an old person, wouldn’t it?)
As it happens, I’m used to being told that I “look much younger.” Yet the inescapable fact remains – my birth certificate says October 8, 1945.
It’s true that around me are many people and artifacts my age and older. If I hear on the news, for example, that an elderly woman was injured by a bicyclist, I’ll think: Oh, poor old thing! Then I’ll hear that she was 72! Gaaack!
It’s funny – sometimes I embrace my age. I get the seniors’ delivery rate at the supermarket! Other times I’m totally opposed to age acceptance. Hey! He could’ve at least asked me if I’m a senior, rather than assuming it!
Well, I’m starting a new tradition: From now on I’m as old as I say I am (official documents notwithstanding)! I’ll just declare, depending on my mood:
- I’m like a fine wine, vintage 1945.
- I’m 39, with 34 years of experience.
- I’m very youthful.
- I’m very mature.
Basically I’m like the ol’ grey mare – there may be a lot of pasture under the hoofs, but I’m not fenced in any more.