I turned 33 on my last birthday. That was not even seven months ago. I don’t remember having another birthday in that time.
My mailbox tells me something different. My mailbox tells me I’ve aged a good ten to twenty years in the last seven months. I have to wonder if my mirror lies because I still look no older than 33 — and many say much younger still.
Is it all an illusion? Am I just imagining a lack of lines on my face, gray in my hair? Do I need to change my wardrobe? Because I am certainly dressing way too young for my mailbox age. I might need to cut my hair, too. Or perhaps that’s all been done, and just as I’ve missed my last twenty birthdays, I’ve missed the haircuts and shopping trips and only imagine what’s in my closet.
My mother has a theory that we’re all actually old, senile people in a nursing home imagining that we’re still young. I’m starting to think she may be right. Or there’s a fold in the space/time continuum. There must be some explanation.
Why do I say this, you may be asking right about now.
For several months now, I’ve been receiving offers from AARP to buy life insurance. That’s right, folks, the American Association for Retired Persons, which requires members be at least 50 years old, wants to sell me life insurance. And they won’t quit. I get an offer about once a week. (Those of you who are currently members might want to look into what your dues are actually paying for.) And yesterday, what did I find? I opened the mailbox, pulled out the mail and found a huge package from More Magazine offering me a one-year free subscription. The magazine targets women 40 and older.
At this rate, I’ll be dead by the end of the year. It was nice knowing you all. Anyone want to take over my blog after I’m gone?