. . . realized I'm old

Here's the gist of a conversation my daughter had with her daughter, Betsy: "Mommy, what did Nana look like before she was old?" "She had long blond hair that she put in a bun sometimes and she wore dresses and high heels." "Why doesn't she still wear high heels?" "I don't know." "I do, because she doesn't have any. I know, I've been in her closet and I've never seen any."


That first sentence just put a dart in my heart. . . no, make that a spear, a javelin, a harpoon. I'm sure that to a four-year-old, I am as old as the world. But I don't feel old. I try not to look OLD, just appropriate to my age. I have never considered my age to be a defining characteristic. Both my kids thought that comment was just the funnniest. . . just wait, you guys, your turn is coming.


And, Betsy, let me tell you, the glam look these days isn't high heels worn with paint-stained sweat pants. I suspect that Betsy has been snooping around the closet looking for dress-up clothes and high heels. She just didn't look in the right place. There is an entire wall of shoeboxes filled with high heels left over from my working days, as well as a whole room full of work clothes. I guess I kept all that stuff because I suspected I would need them again. Wise move on my part, under the circumstances, although most of the stuff is seriously out of date.


And speaking of old, the collage above was inspired by a photo of an old paint-splattered piece of equipment. . . hey, wait a minute, that could describe me.