The woman at the Indian restaurant said, “I so love your bright, matching outfit. I used to dress all pretty, too, when I was your age. But now I’m old and it doesn’t matter how I look.”
Then we started talking and she said her mother is 63. Which means she can’t possibly be older than me. But she sees me with a 6-year-old daughter and probably assumes I’m much younger with a weather-beaten face or something.
My youngest was born when I was 40. I looked older than I was, thanks to my graying hair and a face and body ravaged by multiple difficult pregnancies and many years of full-time motherhood. When I went out in public with my daughter, people naturally assumed that she was my granddaughter, and I got a lot of weird looks from people when I talked to her the way a mother talks to a child, rather than the way a grandmother talks to a grandchild.
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A conservative literary critic and college professor
Clarissa's Blog 
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