As I sit here, my dog is glaring at me from across the room. No reason, really, she’s just on the arm of the sofa (she thinks she’s a cat) falling into her early-late afternoon nap. Her late-late afternoon nap is in an hour, followed by the early evening snooze, dinner, post-dinner shut-eye and pre-bedtime snorefest. Because she is old. I would like to sleep like my dog, but I am not old.
Or am I?
J: The Simpsons has been on a long time, hasn’t it mom?
Me: Yeah, it was on when I was in high school.
J: Was it in color then?
Trader Joe’s checker: May I see your ID?
Me: YES, YES YOU MAY!
Or maybe I am…
A: I’m at least 3000 days old! And you’re…a lot more than that.
Me: Yeah, let’s drop this.
A: Wow! Mom! You’re at least 13,870 days old! You are old!
I feel old, but that’s courtesy of relentless stress and lack of exercise. I gave up Coke Zero last week and my knees have stopped aching, so at least my knees feel a little younger. I apparently don’t look old, but that’s probably because my complexion cannot decide if it’s preteen or middle aged. If age is a state of mind, I’m a 12 year old boy, complete with fart jokes and the attention span of a cracked-out squirrel. If age is behavior, I’ve been 34 since middle school. Asynchrony is one thing, but sheesh. I’d like to all be in the same decade at least.
And when it comes to finishing a thought, I’m well past my pri