Now, I’m no world explorer (and certainly no supermodel), yet I managed to find a free and effortless way to hang on to my youth. And I wasn’t even looking, I was just standing on a sidewalk enjoying a lovely summer evening. That’s the beauty of summer, if you ask me. Every night, you’re presented with an opportunity to wander around under twinkling stars and shiny planets like the moon and Jupiter — you know, those bright spots in the sky.
Meanwhile, here on earth, lightning bugs were the bright spots, blinking and flashing their little hearts out. There weren’t a lot of them, just enough to be entertaining and a treat to behold. We don’t see them very often, not like we used to, anyway. So, because of their relatively rare appearance, I questioned what I was seeing: were these lightning bugs or was I having a stroke?
Age is such an unwelcome intruder.
No one over the age of 40 wants to be reminded how old they are. It’s the reason plastic surgeons and anti-wrinkle creams are so popular — and unbelievably expensive. They promise to restore our youthful appearance, put the bloom back on the rose. But, come on, who cares about appearances? It’s the damn numbers I find upsetting; those two jarring digits clash with my juvenile behavior.
I puzzled over the wide discrepancy between my mental and physical ages until I stumbled on a simple, workable solution: dog years. Henceforth, from this day on, I will measure my age in dog years, which puts me firmly in the 8- to 9-year old neighborhood. A good age for me, very suitable. Sure, I may look 100, but I think like a 10-year old. And, since I’m inside looking out, instead of outside looking in, how old I look is irrelevant.
Until I pass a mirror.