Twenty-five years ago, when the twin daughters of a childhood friend were 7 and I was 41, I told them that someday, when they were grown, I’d babysit for their children.
“When I’m old enough to have a baby, you’ll be old as a bone,” one of the girls said.
Now they’re 32, and I’m 66. Neither woman has children, so I’m not babysitting, sad to say. Still, it never occurred to me then, or now, that 66 could be “old as a bone.’’