I often find myself wondering if I’m old.
Wondering if others at not quite 26 find themselves looking at wrinkles on their forehead.
If others at not quite 26 have knees that get sore when it’s cold.
If others at not quite 26 worry too much about jobs and debts and cleaning and all that other monotonous shit that makes itself seem so fucking important.
It was on one of these days when I was glancing in my rear view mirror at Dex, caught sight of my wrinkles as I squinted and frowned – they look so deep!
Dex suddenly said to me “Mummy, I’m four – am I old?”
To which I replied “of course not! You’re very young – you’re only four and some people live to be one hundred and four even! ”
But what does that mean Mummy?
“It means that to someone who is one hundred and four, Mummy even seems very young and that means we have a lot of years left and a lot of living to do.”
And it was that simple.
I’m not old.
I have a lot of living left to do.
I think sometimes we need to treat ourselves to the gentleness with which we treat our children.
We would never close them off to a possibility such as living to the longest and fullest as possible – why limit ourselves?
I have a lot more living to do.
And some wrinkle cream to buy.