I have been contemplating my age recently. I know that's not normally a really uplifting experience, but the thing is, I don't mind my age. I am forty-two. (Okay, I admit it. It hurt a little bit to actually put it in print.) I will be ... a little older than that by the end of the year. All right, I guess maybe I do have a little problem with the numbers. But we covered last week the fact that I'm not a numbers person.
See, I don't think I look that old. (If you don't agree, please don't enlighten me. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.) My husband, who is not given to insincere flattery, said he thought I looked like I was in my thirties. Again, it's just numbers. Who cares?
Looking my age is another matter. Although I'm not necessarily fond of what I see when I look in the mirror, that has to do with general appearance rather than age. I don't have much in the way of wrinkles. I take care of my skin. I don't look like a dewy twenty-year-old, but I don't want to. (And what's with that word "dewy" anyway? It makes me think of something dripping wet.) I think I have a little more character and wisdom in my face than I did when I was twenty. I should have a little more wisdom than I did at twenty.
So my actual age doesn't make me feel old. Looking in the mirror doesn't make me feel old. But there are some things that do bother me about my age.
The first thing that bothers me is other people's ages. One of my sisters turned forty-seven this year. That's almost at the end of the forties! That's almost fifty. I'm way too young to have a sister that old! It makes me feel old. It probably doesn't do much for her either, but hey, this blog is about me.
My son turned twenty this year. He's taller than his dad. He's had some college and is saving money to finish. He works a full time job. He can vote. He almost qualifies for cheaper rates on his auto insurance. He really doesn't have to obey his parents anymore. Although, if he wants to continue living in our house he has to adhere to certain standards of conduct. (Which he does without a problem.) But see, I'm not old enough to have a twenty-year old son. That's a long time to be a mother. How did that many years pass?
I have a friend who is in her late twenties. I just recently discovered she was born in the eighties. That makes me feel old. I remember the eighties. See, in my mind they just weren't that long ago. I remember them well. Big hair, shoulder pads, Atari 5200. The A-Team and Remington Steele. And yet, the eighties began almost thirty years ago. My kids play their most current form of video games (games I wouldn't even begin to know how to play) and they ask me if I had anything like that when I was growing up. The graphics from Atari are laughable compared to the virtual realities that exist in today's video games.
The advances in technology also make me feel old. I did not take any computer classes in high school. They weren't required and most schools didn't have anything like a computer lab. There were not computers in people's homes either. Now almost every college student has a laptop. Some people have a computer on their cell phone. I think technology is great, but I don't even attempt to stay on top of the latest gadgets and techniques. Someone recently told me I was old-fashioned because I prefer to communicate by email as opposed to texting or "tweeting" or facebook. That makes me feel old.
But life has a way of straightening things out. Just about the time I feel totally down--when I'm planning the rocking chair I will occupy for the rest of my days, something happens that makes me feel young again. Something that could (or should) only happen to a young person.
I get a zit.
Hey, I didn't say it made me happy. I just said it made me young!