A House Like That

 

 

I never disclose my age without absolutely having to, and then it’s grudgingly mumbled.

I’ll tell you why: I think we automatically classify people, consciously or otherwise, by this number.

If I tell you my age, you’re immediately going to make some assumptions about me: my musical taste (you’d likely be wrong), my favorite movies and TV series (wrong again), all sorts of speculation about my personal life and what it entails (or doesn’t).

I don’t want to know your number, either. I don’t want to formulate ideas about you based on that information.

My grandmother probably started all this. When she was in her nineties, in a hospital bed, with a nurse clearly holding a chart containing all her medical information…she would dutifully recite her full name when asked but visibly halt before giving up her birth year.

I know people who are very old in their thirties. I know people who run circles around me in their eighties.

So why would any of us consent to presenting a stranger a number that’s going to cloister us with every other person born the same year?

I know my doctor needs to know, but even that is damned annoying. I’m convinced the Publix drive-through pharmacy lady asks me every time just to torment me (all the others recognize me and skip it, but she refuses).

I have a birthday coming up; it’s not a milestone or anything, just one more year.

And when I stare at that new number, it’s going to be with gratitude for every single one that preceded it, not angst over whatever changes it might deliver.

I once wrote a poem about aging:

I used to live in a house like that

All shiny and pretty and new

I gradually moved to this shabbier place

But I much prefer the view

You don’t have to tell anyone your number. Let your smile and your energy tell them all they need to make their calculations.

 

 

 

Love from Delta.