SPRING CHICKEN: a young person
My definition of “middle age” is changing. When I first met Husband, I was 22 and he was 34. I called him “middle aged.” I’m beginning to understand his outrage.
I debate with myself about whether I feel young or old. It varies day by day.
Usually, I feel young. Part of my secret is hanging out with my Seattle parenting colleagues, most of whom have five or ten years more life experience than I do. In my corner of the world, I am a spring chicken.
Other times, I feel old. Like when my morning stretch comes with snap, crackle, and pop sound effects. Or, when I visit the optometrist and realize that I know the top letter on the chart is an “E” only because my memory tells me that it is.
But, I have never felt as old as I felt Saturday night when I was out with a girlfriend and a man approached our table and offered to buy our drinks. He was drunk, but more importantly, he was old!
When did the twenty-something and thirty-something boys stop coming to my table and start sending their dads instead?