old soul

I met an old man yesterday and he was surprised I was a city editor. I didn’t look old enough, he said. He mentioned it twice - once to me and then again when he introduced me to his wife and asked for my title again.

I was told the same thing today while I was registering my car. She looked at me quizzically and said, “I always imagined an editor to be old, much older than you, with her hair pulled back in a bun and wire-rimmed glasses.”

My glasses aren’t wire-rimmed but at times I do look over the rim at people, and sometimes I do have my hair whipped back. Give me a few years on the old part.

It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been told this, and I don’t mind it.

But don’t let my baby face belie the age of my soul.

It’s an old one.

I feel more comfortable toasting champagne with people twice my age than I do socializing at mixers aimed for "young" people. To be honest, I'd rather hang out at the bridge club or go play pinochile at the senior center than frequent "the places" you're supposed to go when you're supposed to "meet someone."

So why is that?

Because with people my senior, I'm still a young whippersnapper and am not expected to know everything or have the answers to myriads of questions.

And right now, I need to be alone, which means I'm not trying to find someone, which means that you will find me at the senior center a lot. It is, afterall, my "second home."