Forever 19

There is a child living inside me, I swear there is. She's about 19 and isn't overweight, so she has me convinced I look good. She gets really mad, however, when she sees photographs of me (us) and sees only the older, heavy, outside person.  I've tried to convince her that's really what I look like, but she still isn't convinced and, therefore, neither am I.

 I don't think I'd have as much fun if I didn't let her out now and then, though.  She likes to make me do things, then hide behind the unassuming facade of a 59 year old housewife.  The other day I was at the movie theater, for instance, and was annoyed by a guy in the row ahead of me cracking his gum loudly and repeatedly.  Any mature middle aged person would have simply asked him to stop, but instead I found myself wadding up a piece of paper I just happened to have and throwing it at his head.  I quickly turned back to the movie as he turned to see who had hit him, inwardly snickering along with my alter ego at his confused look.  He's lucky he stopped after that warning shot, because the next one would have been a spit ball. 

And there was the time, a year or so ago when, after playing UNO for shots awhile, I began shouting out the window to the neighbors behind us that the party we could hear them having was lame and we knew how to party! I swear my daughter . . . or that 19 year old . . . or both made me do it.

There you have it. My confession to childishness.  To my credit (maybe), I do act responsibly most of the time. I pay my bills, get the check ups an over 50 year old must get, all that. But there are times I catch a glimpse of that other me, the one who'll never grow old - she's most often seen now driving my convertible, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses - and I just have to smile.