My Age Exactly

                             Roz Chast

Here in Maine it's hard to find friends. That's because the people who choose to live on the cusp of society aren't all that social. Most women my age are busy knitting caps for their grandkids, and the men would rather go out hunting or fishing than sit around and chat over a glass of wine or a beer, which is a pretty popular activity back where I come from. So instead of passing the time with friends or getting paid to make more money for someone else, I embark on volunteer assignments. My latest one at a hospital has taken me into the world of the sick. This is a double-edged sword, since while I feel sorry for people with serious health problems I am simultaneously glad that mine are not so bad after all.

One place I work is in the radiology department. When a patient arrives for an appointment, he/she is first identified by date of birth rather than name, since this is how most computers store personal information these days. Being pretty good at math, I do the calculations in my head and instantly know where they are in relation to my age. Sometimes this is quite disheartening, like when someone ten years younger looks ten years older, causing me to consider sticking my head in an oven, just as soon as I can find an oven.

A few days ago a great-looking woman with long, red hair and a dynamite figure, dressed stylishly, arrived at the front desk. She gave her birth date and I was stunned to realize that she had eight years on me, which would make her 76. I jokingly said, "I think you got your birth date wrong." She smiled and said that really she is that old, and for some reason she looks young and always has, even with her original face. "My God, I'm almost 80," she exclaimed. "It seems like just yesterday I was playing in the sandbox."

That lady made my day. Maybe age really is just a number.