When Did This Happen?

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?

Not cool.

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