I often think about aging. More so now that I’m hitting milestones that used to be off in the distance somewhere.
I often have to think about how old I am when someone asks me my age. Despite the passing of the years, in my mind I still feel 27. I’ve asked a number of people if they have a magic age, and all of them said they do.
I’m reading a book that absorbed me from the beginning. Well-written, intriguing, and of substance. (The Ashford Affair, by Lauren Willig)
I get to page 105, and after reading the following paragraph, I stop, re-read, and am astounded at how coincidence and serendipity still astound me:
“She was constantly forgetting how old she actually was. Her mental age was permanently stuck at twenty-seven… It was like a reverse Rip van Winkle; time had gone by and she had aged without being aware of it.”