In my fifties I imagined myself to be thirty-five. I felt thirty-five and somehow lost track of the years that I gained over those last couple of decades. I still did pretty much what I did at thirty-five accept that I was a little wiser or a little more cautious. I could predict things and see things that I would have missed if I was really thirty-five.
Now in my sixties I imagine myself to be forty-five. I really feel forty-five accept for the occasional aches and pains that remind me that I am not forty-five. But I do feel ten years older and am beginning to like being forty-five as opposed to thirty-five.
At forty-five you have a t lot more experience and you start to begin to let go of the angst of youth and embrace the stability of maturity. At forty-five you still look pretty damn good. In fact there are days when you even get mistaken for much younger. I really like forty-five and am so glad I have matured past thirty-five; at least in my mind’s eye.
Twenty years can seem like a long time, but really it goes by in a blink. Suddenly you are a forty-five year old trapped in a sixty year old body. The body and the psyche just don’t fit. So I’ve decide to only look at myself in a darkly-lit room, and fully clothed. I’ll take a brief look at this forty-five year old woman reminding myself that it’s not the body that determines your age. It’s the state of mind and in my mind I have gladly gained ten years and am happy to be forty-five.