Last week, I was talking with one of my little students, when the subject of age came up. I had asked her how old she was and she replied “I’m five. And then it will be my birthday and I will turn six, and then it will be my birthday and I’ll be seven, and then it will be my birthday and I’ll be eight, until I’m…” –Here she paused to think, pondering the prospect of old age, finally concluding, “Twelve! That’s really old.” : )
Today I enter my 20th year. When I told my students how old I would be, their eyes opened very wide, and nearly all of them said something to the effect of, “Wow, that’s so old!” Their parents, however, looked at me with that knowing smile one would bestow upon a little kid who is excited to be “grown up” at ten. How strange life is!
I remember being impatient to be “grown up”. When I was twelve, it seemed that if I only I were fourteen, all my problems would be solved, then at fourteen I longed to be sixteen, then at sixteen, I couldn’t wait to be eighteen. At eighteen, I began to realize that being grown up wasn’t all I thought it would be, and wished I was younger. : )
I figured out recently that I have been taking piano lessons for 13 years. That seemed to me a longer time than could be possible, so I figured it up again, and, sure enough, I have been playing the piano for 13 years. I have an 8 year-old nephew, and two of my very first students –who were five when I taught them– have just turned ten. After that train of thought, I would tend to agree with my students: “Miss Gwennie’s old!” : )