My mother was an “old lady” by the age of thirty-five. At least in my eyes. I don’t remember her being “as young” as I was when I was thirty-five.
Her job at the local bodega took much of her life. She raised me as a single parent for her entire life. I suppose that took a lot of it too.
When she died at the age of forty-nine, I thought she had lived. At the age of twenty-four anyone over the age of thirty-five had lived and anyone over the age of fifty was simply ancient.
Things have changed. I’m forty-five and I’m much healthier than my mother was at that age. I don’t know how I’ve managed that. I chalk it up to sheer luck versus a conscious effort to live to a ripe old age.
Of course the night is young.