I don’t like it when someone asks me for my date of
birth.  My health plan, my credit card provider
and others are always asking me to confirm that date to prove that I am who I
say I am.  When I had surgery recently, several
nurses and at least three doctors asked for my date of birth. (I know that it’s
because they wanted to make sure they were performing the right procedure on
the right person.)  Often I add a
“regrettably” when I reply “2/17/38”. 
And if the question is asked in person rather than on the telephone, I
hope for a “Really? You don’t look that old!” response.

1938 sounds like ancient history in 2010. And more often
than not (unless I am with Peter), I am the oldest person in any group.  That is why I am looking forward to April
when Peter’s high school class has its reunion. 
It seems to me that except for any trophy wives (or husbands) that might
be there, I am going to be the spring chicken when the class of ’47 gets
together.

I can’t wait.