In my mid-20s, I met a man who was seven years older than me. He was sad and tired. He felt old. Well—he was old, I thought, convinced that in seven years I’d be old as well, and then I, too, would be sad and tired.
Seven years went by, and then a couple more. I am no longer in touch with the man, but every now and then I notice I’m neither sad nor tired. I don’t feel old. I don’t think I’m old. I’m so glad I was wrong.