Not long ago, I took a highly revered internet test letting me know my true age. After a grilling list of questions, it revealed that I am 62. Seeing as I was only born 26 years ago, this should have offended me; however, since the description following my “real age” was pretty accurate, it was hard to argue.

I’ve recently noticed that I’m having a hard time keeping up with what the “kids” are into. Actually, it’s not so much that I can’t keep up as I don’t care. I’m not interested in the latest acronym or abbreviation. I don’t need to stay up until the wee hours of the morning in order to call the night a success. When the clock strikes midnight, I’m out. If you can’t manage to fit in a good time before that, you must not be very fun. I’m basically Cinderella, and you wouldn’t call Cinderella old, would you? Exactly.

I’m not quite ready to jump straight to matinee shows and early bird dinners…well, at least not every night. Even if I could skip working for the next 30-some odd years and retire now, I wouldn’t…probably. I want to enjoy living the rest of my days, working full-time and all. I just want to do it my way, the slightly older way. I’m young. I’m full of life and possibility, but I also want to go to bed at a reasonable hour and wake up in a familiar place. If that makes me old, then embroider me an afghan and call me Deloris.