You say, “You must feel so old!”
You’re right. I suppose I must.
Certainly I cannot feel “young”.
I wear compression socks and like to drink hot water.
Besides, I did not navigate painstakingly through
and early adulthood
to be called “young” now.
It was hard work, aging.
Maturing was even harder.
My life has not been long – yet.
Still, I am old.
Too much has happened.
Ages have come and gone in my lifetime.
Identity crises, among other demons, have arisen and been slain.
A respectable career has been built up slowly and, later, traded back in for the gambler’s pursuit of true fulfillment.
People have died, physically and in worse ways.
Beliefs have shifted, like slices of glitter in a kaleidoscope, maintaining core components but morphing in perspective with each twist.
Irreplaceable pieces of the world (at large, and mine) have crumbled away.
And I have had to heave the dead weight of myself towards resurrection from the kind of nothingness from which many never return.
If you’re seeking commiseration or embarrassment, you’ve come to the wrong old lady.
“Old” isn’t a synonym for tired, or unhealthy, or disappointed, or boring, or resigned.
Old simply means “I have lived”.
And I have lived well so far.