Too old

Lately, I've found myself saying to people that I'm too old for that.

It's a good thing.

I'm not telling them I'm too old to dye my hair pink (should I so desire) or bungee jump off the Sydney Harbour Bridge (sure!) or wear a short skirt or exercise or eat dessert or read teen fiction or have lilac toenails. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I'm too old to spend time worrying about what other people think, because I trust my own judgement.

I'm too old to care about what other people are wearing, because I'll wear what I feel good in.

I'm too old to bother with fake tan, because I'm finally learning to love my fair skin.

I'm too old to worry about what the bitchy girls are saying.

I'm too old to even take the time to figure out who the bitchy girls are.

You don't have to wait till you reach the illustrious age of 40 to embrace this liberating mantra. You can be too old for all that at 20, or 30, or even 16, if you're really ahead of the game. But I have to say it seems to come more easily as the years go on.