So a certain someone that I know (read: Guy #3) does something that really really annoys me. He calls me "Ma'am." I HATE THAT. Why? Because, in my mind, that's what you call your elders - the old ladies at the library desk who look down at you from behind their reading glasses...the church ladies selling coffee and lemon bars after mass...Mrs. Garrett from "Facts of Life." You know old ladies. I am not old. I'm 28. I don't feel any differently than I did when I was 27. And when I turned 27, I didn't feel any differently than I did when I was 26. And when I turned 26, I didn't feel any differently than I did when I was 25...and so on and so on. You get the point. Now, this isn't to say that I haven't, like, totally matured or gained a teeny bit more wisdom since my earlier years of life, but all in all, I feel the same. So when Guy #3 (or mrtl - Hi, mrtl! Yes, you succeeded in making me come out of hiding) call me the name assigned to old ladies, my panties get all bunched up in a wad. (Sidenote: I won't make any derogatory remarks as to why Guy #3 calls me ma'am. You know, like it's because he's jealous that I'm older than him because he's only 12 and has yet to go through pubery. Nope..I won't stoop to his childish behavior like that.)

Anyway, with all of my thoughts focused on age, I started wondering: Why don't I want to be old? Is it the wrinkles? Is it the sagging boobs? (FYI: I don't have to worry about that one - itty bitty titties do have their pluses.) Maybe it's the...um...what's that word again??? Oh yeah, memory loss. Nah. I don't think that I have to worry about any of these things just yet. And even if they do happen to me, which they won't, I really won't care. Or, at least, I won't remember to care. But what I will care about is losing my mental youth. I want to be forever young at heart. (Insert Rod Stewart song here.)

I know a few people who "act old." For example, I know a lady who is just a few years younger than my mother, but she acts as if she's 100. (Note: My mama just turned 49.) She complains about "being old" all the freakin time. "My eye sight is going...my bones hurt...I can't remember anything...I'm tired." OK, Whiney McWhinerson, I get the point. You're old. You deserve the official title of Ma'am. But as she drones on and on about "being old" I always think to myself, "Sheesh, Whiney McWhinerson, why do you act so old? You're only a few years younger than my parents and they don't act old at all." So I came to the following conclusions:

1.) My family is AWESOME.
2.) My family is young at heart.

This, intermanet, is the secret to keeping all of those old timer symptoms at bay. It's the fountain of youth, if you will. My family is the silliest group of people you'll ever meet. They play games, the tell jokes, they run, they skip, they laugh. My dad and I take every opportunity we can to jump on the bed. My mom and I never hesitate to tell each other jokes and laugh til we cry. My aunt and I spend time making up dances that look "crab-like" as my uncle and I look for fun food products that splat nicely when thrown at each other. Even my grandpa, who will be turning 80 this year, likes to climb trees with me. We are all young, despite what our birth certificates tell us. And I'm happy to report that every single one of us is a picture of perfect health. My mom is wrinkle free, my dad has low cholesterol and a good heart, my aunt remembers EVERYTHING, and my grandpa's bones don't hurt a bit. The young heart does not stay within, but manifests itself physically.

My Great Aunt died the night before last. She was one of my favorite aunts and I will miss her tremendously. She lived as a nun, in a small town called San Luis Potosi (in Mexico,) almost her entire life. And despite her pious way of living, her calm way of speaking, and the gentle way she would take my hand so that she could hold it, I remember her as always being young at heart. No one knows how old she was. She had to have been in her late 80's or early 90's by my guess, but no one really knows for sure. I remember asking her, last time I visitied her, "Tia, how old are you?" "I'm not telling, mijita." She said as she smiled. "If I tell anyone how old I am, then they might start treating me like an old lady." And then I laughed as a smirk formed on her face and she said, "But if you have to know, I'm only 18."

Don't you dare ever call her Ma'am.