It’s almost the end of the month, the time of the year when there’s the urge to deny my failures, my blunders, my inconsistencies, and my real age (hehe);when hope springs eternal and I once again make resolutions (because after all, it costs nothing to make one) and I believe against belief, hope against hope, in the crap friends tell me that like wine, I am getting better (not bitter) with age. Yes, it also costs me nothing to believe in this crap, as well as the time-worn cliche that age is a state of mind.
Because age is a state of mind, I will believe that I will not really feel old until I reach 55 and have grandchildren (ugh!) Even so, I will be a groovy grandma sporting golf shorts and a cap; still going to the gym like this female septuagenarian I know who has muscles in the right places even at that age. I dread to imagine, but everyone of us hopes to mature gracefully because if we don’t, there’s no use talking about birthdays, right?
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