It seems like just yesterday I was playing with Barbie dolls. Then, I wake up and I’m what? A senior citizen.
Yeah, I’m part of the club now. I’m carrying a few extra pounds, have wrinkles and a bit of that dreaded crepe skin. When did this happen? That old adage, “Time marches on,” seems to have marched over my body.
As a child, 20 seems old.
In your twenties you think you’ll be young forever.
The thirty somethings roll around and you have a family, responsibilities and the beginnings of those wrinkles.
The forties. Okay, stop now.
Your fifties, supposedly the new thirties.
What’s with the labels? For me the only good thing about being classified a senior citizen is the discounts. Discounts at restaurants and for travel. For all those great sales. But I hesitate to claim them. I don’t want to be labeled ‘old.’
And I’m not. I still feel naive, get that rush of giddy girlishness over silly things. And I still need my mother.
As the clock ticks, I’ll get more wrinkles and I’ll own them. I’ll wear them with pride.
You see, I’m still learning. Still growing. Still looking ahead.
Who is that woman who looks back at me from the mirror? If I peer closer, I catch a glimpse of that young girl. She’s still there.
