Her name was Daisy.
She got blue ice cream.
After she named all the colors of the various dots on the ice cream window (blue, red, orange, green, and purple), I told her parents that she was adorable. I asked her, “How old are you?”
She held three fingers up.
“Wow, you know all of your colors and you jump so high and you’re only three?”
She nodded yes. Not proud, not shy, just being factual.
“My name is Daisy. What is your name?” Her voice was a shiny bell.
“How old are you?”
Her parents and I laughed.
“A LOT older than you!”
Her brows furrowed and she asked, “Why can’t you tell me?”
And I realized that I have bought into it hook, line and sinker*. Why was I being coy about my age? Because I’m a woman? Because 49 is old?
She turned to her ice cream, satisfied. Not judgmental. Not shocked. Simply satisfied.
I watched her spoon blue ice cream into her mouth.
And I thought, I’m 49. I’m not proud, not shy, just factual.
*American idiomatic phrase