When I was in high school, I had a math teacher—Miss Pavidis—and she referred to all her students as young whippersnappers. Sad to admit, I have not been a young whippersnapper for a long, long time. I am no longer even a middle-aged whippersnapper, but rather someone that should probably be called ma’am even in New Jersey, where woman like me would still be referred to as “Miss,” even though I have been married over forty years and am the grandma of two little cuties.
I will soon be celebrating the third anniversary of my hip replacement, I have been covering my gray hair for ions, and my hands have age spots and old-lady veins showing through the skin. After careful calculations on timing, I began collecting my Social Security checks as soon as I could.
But this week, the final insult appeared in my mailbox confirming that I am forever a former young whippersnapper. My Medicare card arrived! Although I am not eligible for a few more months, our government has been reminding me for months that this is the big year. I told Grandma the awful news and she responded by saying, “How do you think that makes me feel?”
I am in the autumn of my life.