“How old are you really?” my friend asked recently.
“You know my age,” I said.
“On the inside. We don’t see ourselves through the lens of our real ages,” she said.
She was right.
My internal age is 17. When I lived an unfettered, idyllic life of narcissistic bliss.
I was also prone to shyness. Caught unprepared I’d blush the color of a bougainvillea.
I still do.
It can creep up on me when I least expect it.
A heat wave starts in the back of my neck, spreads to the front, then travels up my chin, nose, cheeks, and forehead. There is no controlling it. It has a power and speed all its own.
What’s worse, everybody notices and stares at the color change happening to my face.
That’s a double embarrassment, and lasts an eon.
I want to dive under the table.
Funny. These episodes usually sprout during meals.
Maybe I should stop eating.
Calvin says, “My internal age is 1. I’m all frolic and wiggles. Take me as I am.”
