My six year old grandson lost a baby tooth the other day, that’s how old he is. He doesn’t have to hold up doubtful fingers when you ask him what his age is, even though he only had a birthday two weeks ago.

My adult kid had him when they were in their late thirties, that’s how old my kid is.

You know how old I am? I’m so old, I made a note to take ibuprofen before bed all the time instead of waiting until everything hurts and I can’t sleep.

Coming down the stairs one at a time this morning, I reflected that it has been nearly ten years since I left the place where I worked for 25 years. I’ve stopped working part time five years ago.

I am considering buying elastic-waist jeans. I wear the same sneakers all the time, because they don’t hurt my feet.

When I put eyeliner on, the creases in my eyelids make the crayon wander off course. I can’t see the marks in the mirror, and no one is really looking, so it doesn’t matter.

I’m so old, that woman from my French class I saw in the farmer’s market the other day, the one who looked like my elderly aunt? She’s my age.

I make the bus use its “kneeler” for me when I get on and off. I hold on to the guard rails. I stop halfway up the subway steps.

I’m so old, I’m really excited that my new recliner is coming on Saturday. It is covered with leather and has an electrical motor. I am plotting ways that I can keep my cat from taking it away from me. I have moved other furniture to make space for it, and gotten a few things framed. It is going to be a little shrine.

I have to make this list because otherwise I keep thinking that really, I’m not old at all.

Except the other day I wrote a furious letter to the senior citizen program coordinator about the fire drill we had the other day that wasn’t a proper fire drill. And except that I can’t eat butter any more. I’m wearing glasses. I have hearing aids, and I forget to put them in.

You know how old I am? I don’t recognize myself when I see myself in shop windows, that’s how old.