Many women lie about their age. Or remain mute. I’ve never been one of those, though there have been many times I’ve been glad the subject never came up. Today, I have to admit I am feeling slightly appalled to be writing this post and admitting to all, strangers, family and friends, that I turn 60 today.
The stupefaction I feel that this is actually possible is also slightly tinged with a sense of satisfaction. Most people don’t realize I’m that old unless I tell them. Despite the gray hair and excess pounds, I don’t look that old. I don’t usually feel old either, although some days my knees shout out otherwise. More importantly, I don’t think old.
80+-year-olds are probably reading this and saying “Old? You’re not old. I’m old. Wait another 20-30 years.” But the twenty-something woman that lives in my head does think 60 sounds pretty damn old. Most actual twenty-somethings would probably laugh their ass off if I told them I feel the same age as them. Do I even have a clue what it is like to be young in the twenty-first century?
I’ll admit I’m not as fixated on smartphones as they might be, but I take my Sprint Evo 4G with me everywhere and text with the best of them when I have something to say. I read books with my Kindle app, am a quick study on learning new software programs, and spend much more time online than I probably should. I hate wearing old lady clothes even though I was smart enough to stop baring my midriff several years ago. Sexy love scenes in the movies still make me melt and I find the conversation of youth more interesting than most of my contemporaries.
So how old am I, really? Is my age determined by calendar days–a system devised by humanity in an effort to impose structure on what would otherwise be an organic solar system? Or am I the age that I feel? I choose to think the latter, even if that means some days I feel 10 and some days I feel 70.
Happy birthday, me. Be good to yourself. You deserve it.