As of yesterday, I am thirty-seven years old.
"Oh, you're so young!" That was a sixty-something aquaintance speaking. She has children my age.
It's all a matter of perspective, I guess, which is what I told her. I am young -- for senior citizen discounts. For Alzheimers. But I'm old for high school. Much too old for diapers. (Come to think of it, much too young for diapers as well.) To put it in strictly Floridian terms, since I have relatives in that sunny state and it's spring-break season: I'm young for Del Rey Beach and old for Fort Lauderdale.
The truth is, when that sixty-something person waved thirty-seven off as generally young, I was thinking, I'm not young for child-bearing. "Easy for you to say," I now imagine myself shooting back at her, "You're old."
But that seems mean, and I am not, by nature, mean. And even if I was, I'm too old for that kind of thing.
My birthday, by the way, was fun: a day trip with my family and my brother's family for good food and ice skating and some long-overdue time in the art store with my nephew, who recently turned nine. Now that's young.