This week as I watched an old movie on television and channeled my inner Betty Crocker by making a bumbleberry pie, my daughter, home for Easter from university, walked by me and said “You know if you’re trying to convince people you’re not old, you’re not succeeding.”
Now, as my birthday was the next day, I’ll admit to feeling a little testy about that remark. Until I realized that the fact is, I don’t think I try to convince people how old, or how young I am…anymore.
I have enough reminders without worrying what other people think.
I know I’m getting old because when I stop taking my anti-inflammatory meds for even a day, I get aches in my once dislocated jaw, my once broken arm, once broken toe, herniated disk and fractured finger. Can’t wait to see what I can burden that little pill with next year.
I know I’m getting old because I tell my kids to turn down their music because “it’s just noise.”
I know I’m getting old because I get excited about a function being cancelled and getting to go to bed at 8:30 and read a book.
On the other hand…I know I can’t be THAT old because
All of my injuries need pain medication to keep them in control so I can continue to work out four times a week, show my inflexibility at Pilates and (in the case of my jaw) talk people’s ears off.
As often as I tell my kids to turn their music down, it’s so that I can turn my own up.
And when I go to bed at 8:30 to read a book, it’s because I was out late the night before, my book is on my Kindle…and I’m interrupted by my buzzing BB or pinging laptop every few minutes (which I love).
I don’t think I’m trying to prove anything to anyone…except that I have the ability to not break anything new in this next year of my life.
(Which according to that same daughter, is already half over. I think she’s just cranky because her ears hurt from her the high volume on her iPod)
