Someone teased me about recently turning eighteen instead of sixty-eight. After I finished basking in the flattery, I started thinking about how one views age, with me as example.
I remembered being nine, and hearing my gram comment on the death of a fifty-two-year-old man, narrated in a newspaper article. She lamented his passing at such a youthful age. I almost choked on my gum. Young! Fifty-two young! I tried to think what interesting things someone that age could do. Couldn't think of a thing.
Fast forward to me at 16, when a handsome twenty-something intern judged me to be eighteen. Preening (I pree
Fast forward to forty-something. As I walk past a construction site. No remarks, whistles or questionable proposals. Siiiiigh. I was definitely over the hill. Bought a T-shirt that said, "Over what hill? I didn't see any hill." Wore it proudly. Smiling.
Now, apparently, I'm beginning to look young again. Never mind that the people who tell me so are my age or older, as my younger son likes to point out. Thank you, God, for bubble-piercing children. I'm also grateful for realizing that it's interior not exterior age that counts. I plan to remain forever seven. Inside.