…she ain’t what she used to be. Or is she?

This morning on Facebook someone said their apartment building was old. When asked how old, the answer given was: “It was built around 1943.”

That gave me pause. I was built – okay, born – in 1945. Does that mean I’m old?

Yes, yes, I know we’ve all heard the protests a million times before: But I don’t feel old… My brain hasn’t changed much since I was a young girl… I feel just as sprightly… (Well, maybe not “sprightly” – that would describe an old person, wouldn’t it?)

As it happens, I’m used to being told that I “look much younger.” Yet the inescapable fact remains – my birth certificate says October 8, 1945.

It’s true that around me are many people and artifacts my age and older. If I hear on the news, for example, that an elderly woman was injured by a bicyclist, I’ll think: Oh, poor old thing! Then I’ll hear that she was 72! Gaaack!

It’s funny – sometimes I embrace my age. I get the seniors’ delivery rate at the supermarket! Other times I’m totally opposed to age acceptance. Hey! He could’ve at least asked me if I’m a senior, rather than assuming it!

Well, I’m starting a new tradition: From now on I’m as old as I say I am (official documents notwithstanding)! I’ll just declare, depending on my mood:

• I’m like a fine wine, vintage 1945.
• I’m 39, with 34 years of experience.
• I’m very youthful.
• I’m very mature.

Basically I’m like the ol’ grey mare – there may be a lot of pasture under the hoofs, but I’m not fenced in any more.