Over the last few days I’ve had/seen/been involved in a few conversations about age. Yesterday a relatively new follower had cause to comment on my twitter avi, saying I didn’t look old enough to have children the age I do and today a friend of old asked me if I was keeping a portrait in my attic!
The photo in question was very flattering to be fair (It’s the photo at the side of this page).
Anyway, later @post40bloggers posed the question
Age genuinely doesn’t bother me. How old I feel does, but the number these days is irrelevant. I’m 44. And the answer to Mel’s question, from @post40bloggers was a resounding yes.
MrS is 10 years older than me. But it never, ever crosses my mind. Some of our experiences don’t tally, but that’s not necessarily down to our age difference. We’ve led different lives to get where we are now, although his story is not mine to tell but age differences become meaningless the older we get, and he’s most definitely young at heart.
What I wish more than anything was that we had met sooner, but we didn’t. Instead we’re making up for lost time :)