With my apologies, Mom.
Yesterday I picked up my mom at her senior citizen apartment building to bring her to our house overnight. As we were leaving, another resident greeted us and asked of my mom, "Is this your granddaughter?" to which my mom replied, "Oh, no, this is my daughter."
The other lady responded, "My, but you have a young daughter!" and looking at me said, "I'm guessing you're in your thirties, right?"
I could have hugged the dear lady. Shaking my head, I disclosed the dirty truth--I am 43. But as my mom and I walked across the parking lot to my van, I felt a little extra spring creep into my step. Until it dawned on me that the sun was going down, preventing this lady from getting a really good look at me . . . that she is quite elderly and so is probably losing her vision as well as her perspective . . . that I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and looking youthfully casual . . . and that not so long ago I used to get mistaken for being in my twenties. In the last decade, I even have a few distant memories of being carded.
Boy, how times have changed. And to think the day is coming when I'll be glad for someone to think I'm in my forties, and fifties, and sixties . . . .