It wasn’t like I felt young or anything, before. But up until my Heart Thing, I was happily oblivious to the realities of time, blissfully drifting along in my own little bubble suspended somewhere between my ten-year high school reunion and the birth of kid number four. I wasn’t trying to act young. I didn’t automatically tune the car radio to an oldies channel to hear songs my senior prom. I kept up with current movies and music, not that I liked it all, especially Rap. And I’ve never tried to cram myself into skinny jeans. That should mean something. I don’t have anything pierced, no tattoos. I wasn’t desperately trying to recapture anything, I didn’t have an age. I just was. Then the surgery happened.
Now I’m officially old.
I'm creakier, it seems. My legs get tired after two flights of stairs. I try and chalk that up to the surgery, too, because that’s where they harvested veins. Or it could be all the meds I’m on. I'm a poster child, these days, for the pharmaceutical industry. My dady-of-the-week pillbox has a blood pressure med, a beta blocker, statin, something for my SVTs, a blood thinner, and two or three other assorted drugs.
But that’s not my only clue.
I haven’t been carded in years… I have to catch myself before I use outdated references like “Walkman” or “roll-a-dex…” And women don’t treat me the same anymore. Or rather, young women don’t. Smiling at any woman younger than 35 automatically sets off their creeper alarm. And forget striking up a conversation.
Yeah, I’m officially old, waiting for the day real soon when a cashier or a waitress calls me “Pops.”