I’ll be 46 this month. FOURTY SIX. I’m not freaked out about it, exactly. I don’t mind being 46 – we’re born, we age, we die – it’s just that lately my age comes as somewhat of a surprise to me.
I’m 27 on the inside. Sometimes 17. I look at people on TV and realize I can no longer tell how old they are. I can usually distinguish “between 20 and 40,” “over 40,” and “over 60,” but that’s about it.
Every few years, I re-read one of my favorite sci-fi/fantasy novels, Legacy by James H. Schmitz. I distinctly remember thinking the female protagonist was neato when I first read the story as a teenager but I couldn’t completely relate to her because she was so old.
She was 24.
My sister asked me what I want for my birthday and I had no real idea. I have a few trinkets on my Amazon.com Wish List but everything I really want costs many dollars:
- Pour concrete next to the driveway and around the spa pad,
- Re-stucco the house,
- Re-wire the house,
- Remodel the kitchen and bathrooms,
- Hire a personal trainer and/or gigolo.
What I would really like is a 17 year old body. Specifically, my 17 year old body (it was pretty good) but with Patty Enos’ arms (the girl had some awesome, hay-tossing guns.)
If I can’t have my 17 year old body I’ll take any reasonably fit, male, heterosexual 17 year old body as a companion. Only that would be weird (not to mention illegal) so let’s make it 19+. But I fear we would have nothing in common. He would need to be intelligent, mildly atheist, fit (but not mind that I am, uh, not so much), handy with power tools, willing to spend virtually all of his free time helping me fix up my house, and a great cook.
Oh fuck it, just send chocolate.