Put the blinds down low.
“How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
One is married with three kids; the other, I think, is probably older than me by three years or so.
Both expressed skepticism and disbelief when I finally tell them the all-important number. I suspect that I probably would also have received the same response if I suddenly sprouted feathery wings from my back.
Not for the first time, I do not understand why the incredulousness.
I wonder if that was a compliment of the subtlest kind.
“What, do I look like I am 28?”
They stammered some reply, but I think my mind had gone numb somewhat and was not very receptive then; I could not remember what was being said.
Then again, that was because I was embarassed at being put under scrutiny even for a brief moment, and proceeded to quickly change the subject.
I have always believed that age is nothing but a number. But after one too many happenings such as these, I am not so sure anymore.
Now, looking older for your age is different than looking more mature for your age.
Can we ever look or behave like our age? What differentiates a 24 from a 27?
But if that were possible, we might as well be walking about with those tell-all numbers plastered to our heads.
I hope there will not come a time when I would cringe should someone correctly guesses my age – at 35.