Too Young to Be Old
Don’t call me old… but you can’t call me young
Don’t call me old… but you can’t call me young. I look eighty, feel forty, and my forever hormonal man/child brain screams we are twenty, especially in the warm days of windblown beach dresses and bikini girls. Don’t tell me it’s too late, I am just getting started, again, another me left in the bag of old Thom, clawing his way out, waiting for the sunshine of reinvention to find me one more time. I don’t know what I will be tomorrow, but it will be different than the me that was so yesterday, not old, just a day older. Don’t call me a senior, it sounds like a vet prescribing meds for your ancient dog; call me properly aged, a vintage just now ripe to enjoy, although perhaps a little taste of vinegar these days and his cork is dry and crusty. Don’t sneer and call me a boomer because I opened a door for you. I also held it for the guy behind you, but truth be told, I didn’t watch him sway on past me into the shop… lecherous is such a better word than boomer. Just call me well used, previously owned, high mileage, still a good ride, but lots of dings, dents and scratches. I will die old, but I will die forever young.
