My key chain broke yesterday. It’s a 2-inch tall Winnie the Pooh stuck in a jar of honey cast in pewter. The key chain is nothing fancy and I usually don’t even notice it’s there, but when it fell off the key ring and onto my lap, my heart sank. My high school girls gave it to me.
I told Rama the story of how it was part of a birthday gift they all pitched in to get, how we each loved a different character, how we preferred Classic Pooh better than Disney and, most importantly, how the gift was such a treasure and how I kept it all these years as a reminder of where I came from. “That was, like, 10 years ago,” I marveled.
Doing the math in my head, I realized I was wrong: It was more like 15 or 16 years ago. I was 15 or 16…fifteen or sixteen years ago!
It’s moments like those that make me feel old.
Deep down, though, I still feel like that teenage girl who identified with the silly and naive bear with a taste for sweets and a habit of thinking a bit too much.