There was a time in my thirties when I couldn't keep track of my age. I kept thinking I was older than I was. I have no idea why but I think it might have had something to do with being panicked. That special kind of panic you get when you are thirty-something.
The minute I turned fifty-five I was sixty. Seriously. I was able to remember my real age but it didn't matter. I was sixty.
Here's the thing. I don't care about being older. At least not in the way people seem to care. I'm OK with the wrinkles and the larger and larger patches of white in my hair. I'm not too happy about the aches and pains. I wish I had done a better job of establishing myself financially. I wish I was in a little house with a garden and a pool. But I like my apartment. And as long as I have books I'm OK. I don't feel like being younger is that cool.
It was kinda fun.
Today I am fifty-nine. Not sixty. I'm not sure why but I am so clear about being fifty-nine.
I had a nice Conn-versation with Steve. Got lots of love on Facebook. And blogged the food.
It's summer now.