Young or Old?
In many ways, I am 90.
Seriously. I’ll be 24 next month, but often times I wonder when the arthritis is going to set in, who sells walkers and where I sign up for an AARP membership.
Now, don’t get me wrong—from time to time, I love to go out to the bars and get wasted with my friends; have random mash sessions with boys; travel whenever I have the opportunity. I love movies and new music and vodka redbulls and saki bombs and sushi and good conversations with my dear friends about our hopes for the future—all things that I think make me a twenty something.
But, when you look at it on paper, there’s a possibility I’m a senior citizen. Tonight, I have knitting group. My sister asked me how old I was when I told her that. But it’s great fun. I am making a scarf—slowly but surely—and it’s green, and completely imperfect, but I think when it is done, I am going to be a very proud scarf mom. You see, it’s the first thing I’ve ever knitted, and doing so has made me believe that I might not be completely hopeless as far as my domesticity is concerned–even if the thing is riddled with holes and its edges look unintentionally scalloped.
I see better when I borrow Gwen’s reading glasses. I refuse to buy some, though, because I am terrified of them. Only “old” people wear reading glasses, right? And if I need them now, is there any chance I am going to be able to see by the time I am 50? Yikes.
And, to top things off, I have a standing date on Tuesday nights with some of my favorite men. Doesn’t sound elderly, right? But, when I tell you these three dapper young men are 89, 84 and 83 and our date consists of playing two hours worth of cribbage, well, then you understand. And the ambiance–it’s unbeatable; if you’ve ever been to a nursing home, you know that those are the most relaxing, romantic places ever. Hot date. Seriously.
I think I need to change this cycle. Before you know it, I’ll be eating dinner at 4P, going to bed at 7P and wearing a diaper. Yikes. My name is Jamie…and I’m 23…I think…