It is interesting how the fifteen-year-old sibling thinks I’m old. Based on the difference of a handful of years.
Like old old. As if I already have mottled hands and bones that creak with every step and a full head of gray-white wisps as you wheeze non-stop in the middle of the night, etc…(no disrespect meant to the elderly)
The other interesting thing is that while I haven’t reached this point yet – not exactly,at least – I don’t blame her entirely. There are lots of signs of old age.
I feel old. Lots of bones and joints keep creaking and acting up. I forget things. I am sleepy and tired all the time. I firmly believe what I say and do is the correct way of doing thing. Of course, I don’t actually get up off my chair to do anything. Just don’t dare question anything. (Get me a glass of water while we’re at it and something to snack on wouldn’t hurt either.) My sentences include the words: “Back in my day…”. And really, those days were glorious! This list could go on, but remember: I forget.
I am too old. Indeed, I am a million years old. A million and one, if you count that one white hair at the back of my head.