I don’t know how I got to be this age. One minute I was a young woman having the time of her life with everything before her, and the next minute I’m 68 years old.
Sorry, make that 67… the problem with having a December birthday is that a couple of weeks later you’re into the following year, and as far as officialdom is concerned (who only take account of your birth year) you’re already a year older than you actually are.
Sometimes I get caught up in this thinking too, and occasionally I get a pleasant surprise when I remember I’m a year younger than I and everyone else thought I was. But that’s probably about the only pleasant surprise about the aging process.
I haven’t become wiser, as I hoped I might. I haven’t become more tolerant, in fact probably quite the opposite. But I have become better at voicing my frustrations… a small consolation.
And you’ll find some of them here…