A young boy guessed my age to be 42.

My initial reaction was to be horrified. But now that I have had time to think about it, I shouldn’t be shocked. I am not that far away from 42.

I look into the mirror for signs of wrinkles. I don’t see any, but perhaps my failing eyesight is deceiving me.

My boobs are not sagging. Yet. It is a matter of time before they succumb to gravity.

I shall soon want to wear colours other than black to regain my lost youth.

My joints ache. I thought that the pain was due to a miniscule tear I got from a sports injury 6 years ago, but now I think it’s just old age and rheumatism.

I live in an imaginary world where I am always 30. I should start socialising with real adults who discuss Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Anna Karenina.