Can you tell my real age?

I want to wish an early HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Dave, who sparked a memory for this post.

I never worried about the signs of aging until recently when my hubby informed me I was getting gray hair in the front of my head and laugh lines at the corner of my eyes. Dark hair shows gray so well, and I’m beginning to look like either “Storm” from the X-Men, or Peppy Le Peu from the Bugs Bunny Show.

I did try to color my hair with coffee several moths ago, but other than that, I’ve never drenched my face with high-dollar moisturizers and masks. The facial masks would only scare the children and my face is naturally oily; sometimes it’s so oily, I swear if I wrung it out like a dishrag, I could get enough oil to fry tater tots.

I do take care of myself by drinking enough water, exercising, and going naked in public. By saying I go “naked”, I mean I don’t wear makeup, my face is naked but the rest of me is fully clothed. Bet I made you do a double take though, huh?

When I go without makeup, I look years younger than what I really am. A few years ago, when I was twenty-nine, I worked my way through college as a substitute teacher for my local school district. I was always overjoyed when I got a call to be a substitute coach. PE was in my field of expertise, and I felt alive when I stepped foot onto the gym floor. Let’s be honest too; I could wear shorts and Nikes all day, and no makeup, which was an added bonus for my free-spirited heart.

On one occasion, I was to substitute as a coach at the high school for half a day in the afternoon. I was ecstatic. I had the whole morning to run errands and the rest of the day would be spent doing what I loved.

I showed up a couple of hours early, and headed to my favorite sanctuary, the library. The dismissal bell ending the subject period had just rung when I walked through the massive steel doors of the high school, and the cool dimly lit hallways was a beehive of activity as students bustled from their lockers to their next class. I paused to look at the collogue of colorful photos adorning the pale white walls, and startled slightly when the tardy bell rang. The now silent halls were a startling contrast to the bedlam occurring just a couple of minutes earlier. The only people left was I and a tall, rather distinguished gentleman standing nearby. That must by either the principal or vice principal. I’ll introduce myself in a minute, I thought before turning my attention back to the wall.

“Get to class!” a deep baritone voice said behind me. Startled, I turned and came face to face with the distinguished gentleman.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked.

“Whom else would I be talking too?” he barked. “Now get to class.”

They don’t pay me enough to take this type of abuse, I thought hotly. I lifted my chin and took a don’t-mess-with-me stance. “No, I don’t think so.” I said, tapping at my Mickey Mouse watch. ”Mickey says I have a couple of hours yet.”

“I don’t care what Mickey says; I’M tell you either get to class or get detention.”

It all hit me like a ton of bricks. “Y-You, think I’m a student?” I asked, snickering.

The gentleman looked confused. “Aren’t you?”

I laughed harder. “No sir. I’m the substitute coach for PE this afternoon.”

He stared at me blankly before bursting out laughing himself. “That would explain you’re attire,” he gasped, pointing at my shorts and sweatshirt. He was the principal, and after we composed ourselves, I apologized for my attitude.

“No, my mistake,” he said. “You had every right to be insulted.”

Insulted? Never! In fact, he made my day.