How old am I?

Wait? How Old Am I?

I don’t know when I started doing this, but lately I keep asking myself, “How old am I?” It’s not that I’m shy about letting people know my age, but instead that I’m having a hard time realizing that the number associated with my birth date is how old I’m supposed to feel.

I can remember a time when I looked at people in their 40’s and thought, “Wow! They’re old!” But yikes! Just the other day I found a hair on my chin. Now I’m not talking about a “new- chick-from-the-egg downy fuzz”. No, I’m talking about one long, spiky, fatal follicle.  Also, I’ve had to start wearing readers so I can decipher the size 3 font used on packaging (do you think eye wear companies pay to have tiny print put on products?).  And where did those wrinkles come from? Not all the wrinkle-reducing, age-defying cream in the world will help those fine lines. In addition, just when I think I’ve figured out how to muddle through my computer and smart phone it’s time to upgrade and figure it out all over again, causing my brain to overload.

But the final and last straw to all this are my (adult) children! They’ve started treating me differently; in an incredibly patronizing way. You shouldn’t do this; you might want to do that.  It’s not like I’m sunbathing in a bikini or taking a cross county motorcycle trip.

In fact, I’m not interested in spending my 50’s pretending I’m 30, but my very own offspring at times treat me as if I’ve crossed over into paranoia. OK. Maybe I am overly suspicious, excessively wary and unreasonably distrustful.  I mean, come on…doesn’t everyone lock their car in the garage? And even though I vowed I would never be that “old lady” who unapologetically blurts out whatever comes into her mind, without any filter, I might have to admit, I sometimes find myself helping others see the errors of their ways through my eyes.

Recently I went to a high school reunion. I stepped into the room, looked around and saw no one I knew. Surely, I was in the wrong room. But after confirming with the name-tag-door-greeter, I found out I was, indeed (!), in the right place – but everyone had changed; even though I had not!  How did this happen? Again, it made me ask, how old am I?

Maybe I’m looking at this all the wrong way. Perhaps I should realize getting older has its advantages. Hey! It took me all these years to finally feel confident in this skin, a bit bruised and battered but definitely braver and more determined.  I keep telling myself age breeds maturity and confidence. Over the years, I have learned that Life has a way of throwing curve balls and, as a result, I don’t always get everything right. I’ve started looking at mistakes as, well…opportunities. I’ve learned that as long as I am blessed with good health and have the love of my family, everything else in this life is a bonus.

I will never want Botox (I want to embrace those laugh lines), or dye my hair (gray is the new beautiful), and will continue mastering the art of being a lifelong learner (because pretending to know what it’s all about only gives you a deer-in-the-headlights look. Instead, if you find yourself in a situation where you have to forge forward without knowing, the trick is not being found out before you can get home to Google it).

So as long as health and memory hold out (and that is being debated even now amongst my posterity), I want the coming years to be more rewarding; more relaxing; more restful. The truth is…I don’t think I mind getting older after all and I think I’ll just forget my actual age number. Ahhhhhh…There’s a certain freedom to it. I can do anything I want.  I’m old.  

Ice cream for breakfast, anyone?