Back when I was a young BCiT, I made my grandma mad by (unintentionally) announcing her age to a full 55. At six, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want people to know how old she was. Even now, I find all the shame and secrecy surrounding the number of years a person has been on the planet to be somewhat difficult to understand.
Folks, I’m no spring chicken. Unlike my father, I can’t claim to predate I-5*, but I am old enough to have a (somewhat fuzzy) memory of the Sonics only national championship. (Sorry, didn’t mean to start down that path again.) I’ve tended to view my advancing age as a good thing, since—for one thing—it’s advancing. (I’ll take being alive plus one over the alternative any day.) It also means I’ve lived enough years to have learned a thing or two—and that I’m inching ever closer to that Metro senior discount. I digress.
Last Friday, on an afternoon 3 ride home from visiting some friends on Queen Anne, little Chicklet passed the time (and entertained her neighbors) by making up a song about us.
The lyrics went something like this: “Mommy’s 38, 38, 38; Mommy’s 38—and Rosa’s 3!”
Eh. Hmmm.
Sorry, Grandma.
***
*I do, however, hope to outlive it.
On the other hand, there’s nothing like driving bus and having customers (yes, plural) ask, “So, how close are you to retirement?”
I’m 46.
Sigh. :-)
(heeheehee) The age of 38 was long, long ago for me. I’ve gotten to the stage where I make notice only of decades, double-digit birthdays, and significant fractions of the century. My dad, however, has flipped to the other side of the coin: “I’m 94! Pretty soon I’ll be 94-1/2!”
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