Swiss writer Henri Amiel said, "I'm not interested in age... You're as old as you feel."
What then if you don't feel 8, 18 or 80? What if from day to day or moment to moment it varies?
Case in point; a recent decision to attend a concert of a very loud, very kick-ass country band & company. Something I've done for years and years (not that anyone's counting here.) Going in, if I had to call it, I'd say I was about 22 tops. Halfway through I was somewhere in my mid-teens to early 30's. Two and a half hours later, my eardrums banging like a steel drum on sonic boom, I was 76 on a good day.
Sigh.... It isn't an identity crisis I'm having these days. It's a numerical crisis.
I suppose there are some positives to this little conundrum, particularly when writing YA and the need arises to channel my inner 17-year-old snot nose. She's still there, bless her tenacious soul.
Right next to the little old lady knitting those God-awful potholders that nobody really ever uses.
Someday I will figure out how old I actually am. Someday I imagine I'll shed this chronological chameleon skin for one that fits just right all the time. Until then it's anybody's ball game. Or concert. So, as the man says, "turn it up" and for goodness sake keep it down!