“So, Emily. Tell me honestly. Does thirty-seven sound old to you?”
I’ve been trying it on all day, you see. Thirty-seven. 37. That’s how old I am now, as of today, as of about 8:30 this evening. I am Definitely Not Used To It yet.
I wait for Emily’s answer. Emily, my younger sister. The one who, in July, turned 33.
“It’s a prime number,” she says. “I’ve always been partial to prime numbers.”
I pause to consider this. I hadn’t thought of the prime number thing. At least, not until I got the phone message left by the phatted calf and his lovely Rachel, the one in which the phatted calf pointed out that yes, 37 is a prime number. And then he said something about Monty Python that I didn’t quite get.
“Yes,” I say to Emily. “It is a prime number. When was the last time I was a prime number?”
“Thirty-one,” she says.
“Thirty-one. That was a good age. I had a baby when I was 31.”
Pause.
“So, you didn’t answer my question. Does 37 sound old to you?”
And that reminds me of the message my dear mother-in-law left me today. She called to wish me a happy day and to see if I felt any older.
I don’t think I feel any older. I mean, I am exhausted. And I have a cold, which makes me feel ancient. But I think it’s just the fatigue and the cold. I don’t think I feel older. Not Older. No.
“Does 37 sound old to you?”
“No, it doesn’t sound old. I mean, it definitely sounds strange.”
I think it sounds strange, too. I have thought so all day.
“Yes, it sounds strange. And I guess it sounds older…. I mean, now, while I’m still young. But it isn’t really older. Thirty-three used to sound old to me, and now it really doesn’t.”
Because, you’ll remember, Emily is thirty-three. And thirty-three used to sound old to me, too. Until I turned thirty-three. And then thirty-four.
But wait. Am I still young? Or is she still young and I’m (finally) old (albeit prime)?
Or maybe I’m In my prime? Is that it?
I’m thirty-seven, that’s certain, and there’s nothing to be done about it. I am, as I told a solemn Everett this afternoon, the youngest I’ll ever be.
I’m thinking I can’t really know how young I am. Or how old. I thought I was plenty old when I was twenty-seven, but I had no idea what I was talking about. Maybe I won’t know a thing about thirty-seven until I’m in my forties, or fifties. Or, even, thirty-eight. Or -nine. Yes, someday, this strange, prime age may sound Really Young to me.
I guess that’s something to look forward to.
