Am I Too Old To Write? By Cathy Kaufman

Recently, I attempted to pursue something that has always been important to me…writing. I applied for a freelance job that I actually had quite a bit of knowledge in, but because I had not freelanced before, it was decided I wouldn´t even get the chance. So at 45, I began to wonder if my time had come and gone. I hadn´t really thought so; I didn´t feel like it was, but then I received the mail that day and was startled by what had arrived. Yes, on top of already feeling low, The Scooter Store sent me an application, pre-printed with my full name. Was there already a scooter with MY name on it?

So, staring at the picture for what seemed like an eternity, my husband gently took the envelope from me and took me to the mall. Needless to say, I was a little bitter. So after discussing the subject with my husband, he pointed out that all I had to do was go for it. Whatever it might be. I am only as old as I let myself be.

I thought, you’re right, and as we sat there watching young men and girls go by, my attention went to a couple my husband seemed to be quite mesmerized with. She was all of maybe 25, and I turned and asked my husband, “Do you like those jeans?”

With that stupid look some men get, he asked, “What jeans?”

With that I was off. I turned to him and said, “I am not too old to write, and I´m not to old to wear those jeans. I´ll show you!”

After about twenty minutes of me jumping up and down and slamming myself into the dressing room wall, I still didn´t have those jeans even close to being buttoned. I calmly sat down and got dressed, opened the door and said to the sales clerk, “They were too big.” And, off I went to find my husband.

Of course, I found him positioned in front of another store, across the way, trying to distance himself from the “elephant woman” scene I had caused in the fashionable clothing store. As I walked over to him, he patted the seat next to him. With tears streaming down my face, I asked if he was content with my age, weight (which is not large) and me in general. As I knew he would, he said, “Always.”

So, as we made our way down to the food court for comfort food, I took his hand in mine and looked into his eyes and asked the dreaded question, “Did anyone say anything as I was making all that noise?”

As he turned and looked at me, he said, “Yes.”

After the longest pause, he added, “The clerk said if there was any damage, you would have to sign paperwork regarding the incident.”

Still looking at me and grinning from ear to ear, he said, “I replied, ‘That´s alright. She loves to write.'”