When I was a teenager and young adult, I tended to look younger than my age–maybe because I was short and skinny.  I remember once going to a fancy restaurant with my parents.  There was a dress code–men were supposed to wear jackets and ties and women had to be in dresses.  I was wearing velvet slacks–nice but not fitting their code.  When my mother asked the maître d’ if my outfit was okay, he said: “Oh–she’s just a child, so it’s fine.”  I was 17 and was outraged to be called a child.  I insisted that we leave.

When I was about 30, married with a baby and living in my own home, a salesman came to the door.  I was wearing shorts and had my hair in double ponytails.  He said: “Can I speak to your mother?”  Wanting get rid of him, I just laughed and said: “She isn’t here.”

I haven’t looked young for a long time. My hair is silver, my face has a good share of wrinkles, and my neck is creased and lumpy.  Nobody thinks I look young for my age anymore. 

The thing is–I still think of myself as young for my age.  So–my feeling on the inside doesn’t match what’s happened on the outside of me…

And maybe I am still young and always will be… Jan 22, 2013