On Being Old

As Blake reminded me yesterday (ever so kindly): I look perpetually 12 years old. This is why I'm convinced that I will be carded, even when purchasing wine - the most grown-up of alcoholic beverages, until the day I die.

But sometimes I don't feel young. In fact, most of the time I feel exceedingly old.

Like tonight, for instance. As I sit in our apartment freezing my butt off (thank you, Blake's friend the air conditioner), drinking a glass of wine, feeling the aches of pilates and reading Sinclair Lewis, I could not feel older. Tonight, I think I'll go to bed at 10 if I get all my reading done. Tomorrow, I'll stay away from carbs because I know how they make my stomach turn. The next day, I'll bundle up because it will be an ungodly 70 degrees in the rain. This weekend, I'll probably spend a substantial amount of time thinking about my future, making sure my (school & career) affairs are in order, and going for nature walks.

Let's face it. If you're only as old as you feel, right now I'm 107.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully old. I expect to take to a lip-stick, and to find a gray hair any morning now." Carol in Main Street

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