I’m Not That Old…or am I?
A short reflection from a forty-something woman grasping the reality of aging.
It’s a crisp 34 degrees this morning, and I was pissed when I got in my car and realized I had to stop and fill up before work.
I pulled up to the pump and began looking for my card. As I rummaged through my wallet, a white extended-cab truck pulled up on the opposite side. His music was so loud I could hear it clearly while sitting inside my vehicle with the engine still running.
I’m a loser, baby, so why don’t you kill me…
I smiled and thought of the anti-everything-girl I had been in high school.
After locating my credit card, I dragged myself from the warm interior of the vehicle and shoved my card into the slot. The man on the opposite side was doing the same. You could hear a series of beeps as we paid for gas. I looked straight ahead. Gas pump interaction is always awkward, so I avoid eye contact. But I was curious about my pump mate.
His musical choice and vehicle had me picturing a young man with longish brown hair and a flannel.
After putting the nozzle in the gas tank, I took a peek at him. At least he was wearing a flannel, but the man I was looking at was old and sported a bald head and glasses.
