I like people. I like talking to people, especially vibrant, intelligent people, with whom I share certain interests. We will be great friends, I think to myself. There are, however, those occasions when, in the course of a conversation, I am struck with the realization that I am older than I feel. These statements came from actual conversations.
- “Wow, you’re the same age as my parents”
- “Yes, my parents love that group, too”
- “9/11? Yes, I read about that in my history book”
- “You actually lived on a farm? with real animals?”
- “You were alive during segregation?”
- “But they were elderly,” they say. “How old?” I ask. The response is, “58.””
- “My grandparents told me about 8 tracks”
- Me: “What does it say in your textbook?” Them: “We don’t have textbooks.”
- “Chalkboard? Is that like a Smart board?”
- “You didn’t have a cell phone?”
- “You’d like my mom. You two should hang out”
- “Who are The Carpenters?”
- “Wow, I wasn’t even born, then!”
- “You’re like my second mom.”
I feel like the same person I was at 25, yet smarter, more tolerant, more aware, a better person. I am very happy with the life I have at this moment. When others see me as “old”, it does sting a little, initially, then I reflect on how grateful I am to be settled, with no real worries. Mid-life is a happy time. I would rather be this age than 25 again and that’s the truth.