I’ve had several how-old-I-am encounters recently that made me want to change the words of an old camp song that ends with “Nobody knows how dry I am” into “Nobody knows how old I am.”
It started when I had my blood tested last week. The lab technician verified my date of birth before sticking in the needle. She did a bit of a double-take when I told her, and said, “You don’t look that old. You look about 50.”
That Friday, going through security at the airport, the TSA man came up to me and said, “Don’t bother removing your shoes. People over 75 don’t have to do that any more.” “But,” I started to say, intending to tell him I was not 75. Instead I kept quiet and left my shoes on.
Then on Sunday, in the airport again, the TSA lady told me to take off my shoes because I couldn’t have been born 75 years ago. “I wasn’t,” I told her, “but I was born 74 years ago.” TSA lady, ”Are you going to cheat for one year?” “OK,” I replied. “I’ll take my shoes off.” “Don’t bother” she said. She added, “You sure look good.”
Nobody knows how old I am.