I am one hundred and eight years old, and some days I act accordingly, all 108 years showing in my stride and in my gaze.  

Other days I pick another age. I am 7, inches of snowfall; I am 12, on the soles of each shoe; some days I am just born, seeing the world for the first.  

But when picking an age, I make sure to ignore my waist size, my thread count, or the vintage on last night’s bottle of Burgandy.