Age is just a number

My mom used to say that age is just a number and I believed her... up until yesterday when I applied for Medicare—a sobering process which pierced through a blissful fog of denial that I’m well into the fourth and final chapter of my life. 

Just because I’ve walked planet Earth for almost 65 years, some faceless, nameless bureaucrats have officially decreed that I’m old.  But five year old Angie isn’t buying it.  Most of the time, she feels like she’s playing dress up, trying to act all wise and grown-up when she’s barely out of kindergarten. 

 

You will never convince her that it’s undignified to climb the monkey bars at the local playground or cuddle with her favorite stuffed lambie. 

The truth is that my inner five year old is still very much in charge of my life.  She insists on her right to stay up just a little bit later on school nights.  There is no discouraging her from gleefully anticipating the first big snowstorm of the season, hoping upon hope for a snow holiday.  Decorating the Christmas tree with her favorite Disney plush ornaments is an annual ritual which brings joy to her heart.   She’s still waiting for the perfect gift—the pretty pony with a silky mane and kind brown eyes that she’s been dreaming of her whole life.  Even though it hasn’t materialized in 65 years, she is absolutely sure that someday, she will run into the living room on Christmas morning and there it will be.    A trip to Timbuk Toys in search of a gift for the kids in her life is an exciting adventure—hell, she is a kid who goes on overload at the tempting display of dollhouses, butterfly pens, and Hello Kitty coloring books.   She loves sparkly, shiny things. Pink is her absolute favorite color and she cannot resist buying garish socks with puppies or kittens.

 My five year old firmly believes that maturity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.   Despite the occasional embarrassing temper tantrum and undisguised disappointment that the promised snow storm didn’t happen, I wouldn’t trade little Angie for anything.  She is the keeper of my innocence, she helps me to maintain a childlike sense of wonder and joy;  she’s the one who delights in the sight of a ladybug or gasps with awe when a double rainbow stretches across the darkened sky.  She still believes in magic and miracles.  Okay, so she can be gullible and naïve, at times, but isn’t this better than being a jaded old cynic?

Overall, little Angie is brimming with hope and optimism.  She persists in seeing the silver lining in everything.  She’s actually pleased that I’m about to cash in on old age benefits.  After all, it will free up more money to spend on toys.