OK, watch out — I’m turning on the bragonater, which is very different than a bullshit detector.
There’s nothing I enjoy more than someone practically keeling over when I divulge my age. Today an acquaintance was telling me about a free weekly musical event she thought I’d like. “You know,” she said, “a lot of people our age go .”
I humbly thanked her, but I’ll admit that I was waiting for the shock and awe (in a good way). “Oh we’re not the same age; I’m much older than you,” I said. She laughed, clearly doubting me.
“Well I’m 51,” she said. Ha! When I cheerfully announced that I’m 13 years older, she almost fell off her chair, but instead shrieked, “I’m floored!”
Last time I visited my friend Charlotte in NYC about five years ago, she opened the door and looked speechless. “Oh my god,” she finally blurted, “you’re the only person I know who looks younger every time I see you!”
Bragonater’s off now. My age is creeping up on me. For the first time in my life, I have a pudgy stomach, my shape is changing. I don’t have as much energy.
I question whether it’s worth trying to lose 15 lbs. — I weigh more than I did during either of my pregnancies — or whether I’m at the age when it’s better to suck every once of enjoyment out of life, including hazelnut gelatto, Basha’s killer chocolate ganache cake, sweet potato fries and a juicy burger.
After all, they say, life is short. But I’m also of the age when I don’t want life to get even shorter because of the rotund middle part of my body. I’ve always said that when I’m 80, I’ll sit around eating all the dark chocolate I want. Dark chocolate is good for me.