Our munchkins are two and a half, three and a half, almost six months, and so on. Their ages have been counted in days, weeks, and months since they were born.
I am . . . and there I pause.
How old am I? I forget.
I have never been very occupied with what age I am. I have been completely satisfied to be exactly the age I am. Should I line up my friends, you would see I tend to think the same thing about them. Friends on my list could have been my children, could have been my parents. Does not matter to me. They are my friends and I love them and enjoy spending time with them.
Since I don't spend much time thinking about age, time and again I simply forget how old I am. It can be embarrassing. One time I was interviewed by a newspaper about one of my art exhibitions in Oslo. The reporter asked my age. I could not remember and in my head frantically started counting decades from my birth year, trying to seem half-way intelligent, not dimwitted. She was young, probably in her twenties. She appeared to remember her own age perfectly well.
I laughed at my shortcoming. She did not.
I don't understand when people complain every birthday that they are a year older. Isn't it a great thing to be alive and take part in all the excitement yet another year? The alternative is a shorter life on earth. I don't think they see that as a better solution.
I must admit that my body seems to know that I am getting older even though my heart is oblivious to the thought altogether. A young heart will feel younger. It's as simple as that.
I have an "older" friend who has to mention almost every time she opens her mouth, that she is an old lady. I wish she would skip it now and then.
The love of my life is a year and a half older than me. That I remember. He s sooo much older than me.
He can still outrun the teenagers on the soccer field and has a boyish charm. Love that about him.
My art today is an oil painting - a place that can be enjoyed no matter the age.