I’ve always wanted to be a chrysanthemum, rather a daffodil. Chrysanthemums bloom late.
When I was twenty-three, one of my colleagues announced she was getting re-married. She was thirty-three.
“How nice,” I thought, “that a woman so old can find somebody to marry her.”
Don’t shoot me: I know how awful that sounds. Happily, my definition of old has stretched by years and years and years, especially since I became a senior citizen myself. (And I cringe at the phrase “can find somebody to marry her.” But that’s another post.) These days I get senior discounts without even asking for them, and no one ever asks to see my ID. As one of my granddaughters sweetly confided: “Grammie, you’re the oldest girl I know.”
Some of you may smile benignly and say, “What is she talking about? Seventy-one is not old. She’s a kid…I have bunions older than her.”…
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