My appearance is deceiving. I look smaller than I am, and younger. 

Looking smaller than I am means that salespeople argue with me about what size hat (XL), pants (US14), or shirt (large) I pick out. They think I have tiny feet (8) and that I’m very short (5’5”). My proportions are apparently slightly off, as if I’m standing at the wrong distance.

I also have thick hair that has been sprinkled with gray for twenty five years, but it’s still only mostly gray at the temples. I have a tattoo. I wear an N95 mask on the bus, so you can’t see the wrinkles, but even without it I have strong bones and no jowls. I was an athlete. I look as if I’m in my early sixties. But I’m 74.

I have bad knees, a bad hip, poor balance, and hearing aids. I swear. So I take advantage of the senior citizen seats, I get the bus driver to lower the bus for me, and I let young people wave me forward ahead of them.

On the bus, when I sit down in the senior citizen seats, I sometimes get side-eye from the kind of older woman who likes to enforce the rules. Today one of those people, after several glares at me and a huff of breath, got up and offered her seat to another, nearby, standing woman of about my age, who was clinging to a grab bar.

“No thank you, I would fall down,” said the standing woman politely and the disapprover sat down again, not looking at me. You see, the standing woman had white hair, which is appropriate for our age.

I did fall on the bus once, and hit a metal crossbar with my face. I was lucky I didn’t break my cheekbone, though I did have a bruise for a while. 

So when it’s my stop, I don’t pretend to be sprightly. I rise slowly, holding on to the strap or the bar, and I take little steps, holding on. I could stride, I could swing my arms, but no thank you, I would fall down. I’m one good fall from looking my age, so I might as well act as if I am my age.