Old?

I'm not old. At least I don't think I am. I have 63 years of experience with this world, and I like to think I've made the best of them. I am technologically literate, if not on the cutting edge. I facebook, tweet, blog and pin, with varying degrees of regularity. I don't really check in from everywhere I go, but at least I understand what's happening when someone else does. I have a laptop, a Kindle, an iPhone an iPad and an eBay account. I shop online.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise to me that--even though I am not old--many of my things are. Someone complimented me on a favorite red wool scarf I happened to be wearing last week, and I quickly gave credit to the lovely person who selected it with her customary good taste--and had given it to me. My daughter's second-grade teacher. Hmm. That brings it in as approximately 28 years old..pretty old for an article of clothing, even when well-taken-care-of.

This week, I ventured forth to buy my mom a bedspread that she claimed she needed, and was appalled at the prices for a twin bedspread. This could be because I don't think I've bought a bedspread since I started grad school and was furnishing my apartment. We were given two lovely Bates Queen Elizabeth bedspreads as wedding presents--38 years ago--and they still cover the two queen-size beds we have in our house and look fine. Even the house in San Diego has its share of Bates bedspreads: when JC's mother died, there were two that ultimately found their way west, and God alone knows how old THEY were. But they serve their purpose in the master and guest bedrooms in California.

The more I look, the more I see. The mixing bowl set that I received as a shower gift is now collectible as 'vintage Pyrex'. I have some pots and pans and utensils that pre-date our grown children, if not our marriage. There are books from college and even high school that still grace our shelves.  The typewriter that saw me through elementary school, high school, college and grad school still sits on a desk in my bedroom. And I'd venture to say there are items in boxes under the eaves of our house that go back pretty far. (Who am I kidding? Jimmy Hoffa is probably back there...) I have crossed over the line from 'up-to-date' to 'vintage' and 'antique.' When I break one of my everyday dishes, I have to look in thrift shops and antique stores for replacements. They just don't make them anymore.

Well, okay. I can deal with that. I might even like the fact that I am a little bit 'vintage' myself, a little 'collectable' in my own right. The words imply a level of uniqueness, of being special, of having an unsuspected worth. I like the idea that, if someone looks closely, I might have more to offer that I do at first glance, that I have survived the years intact, and that all my bumps and bruises have simply added to my value. Antique. I like it.