Oh, Not to Be 25 Again!

There I was, pumping my own gas. I usually feign dramatic yellow fatigue so my husband will do it for me. However, today I braved the world of cars and mechanical gadgets so I could run errands on a full tank.

I noticed the young woman fueling her car ahead of me. She looked 25 and full of self-confidence. I love trying to guess temperaments without talking to people.

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She stood straight and tall, hair slightly blowing in the breeze while waiting for her tank to fill. I guessed she might be yellow when I noticed her smiling at everyone who made eye contact with her. But again, poised and self-assured from every visible hint could mean she’s red.

On further inspection, I discovered her practical side. Instead of 4-inch heels, she wore more reserved 2-inch pumps with her casual outfit. And tiny earrings, which screamed blue.

Then again, she might just be a nice green on her lunch hour. (In addition, rarely do yellows pump gas, let alone without wearing fancy earrings.)

My first thought when I saw her, “Oh, to be 25 again.” Followed more quickly by “Lord, please, NO … I did not mean that. REALLY,” as if by some miracle I would be whisked  back a few decades without warning.

Whew! That was close.

I was so stupid at 25. I shudder to think what could have happened to me if I had not married well. My husband was born a grown-up. At age 21, he was so mature and grounded he could have passed for 40. I truly give him and God the credit for our successful marriage. Nevertheless, I would not go back to age 25. Not in a million years.

I am so privileged to have the wisdom that comes from years lived, and being appreciated for it is even a greater honor.

I love the plethora of people who have influenced my life, not to mention I would painfully miss my kids and grandkids if I were 25 again.

I love the opportunities that come my way to impart some wise tidbits to young people and hope to have many years ahead to learn even more.

Off to run my errands. If only I were a BLUE, I would have hand wipes with me to get the smell of gas off my hands.

Oh, well.

 Question: Who pumps the gas for your car? 

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