Sasha fidgeted during the conversation which revolved around city schools and taxes. She was not sufficiently occupied. What fourteen year older would be? I could relate to those days, feeling stuck at the dinner table with adults, anxiously awaiting to be excused.

Her relief was evident when Margie stated, “You don’t have to sit here. You can go.” Without hesitation Sash gobbled down her chocolate cake and vanished to her room. I imagine she called a girlfriend, seeking out more relevant conversations – gossip over school happenings, makeup and boys.

Sasha’s departure stirred familiar memories of younger days when I experienced the same boredom at my parents table. I was often amazed at how they could talk with friends for hours about a new washer/dryer, or a recipe for chicken while consuming bottomless pots of coffee.

As Sasha’s bedroom door closed, I caught a glimpse of the pink frilly curtains and posters thumbtacked to the wall. Memories of my childhood room – sky blue walls, and a pastel flowered bedspread with matching curtains washed over me like a retreating tide. The child in me that could clearly recall my days in Sasha’s shoes felt betrayed and confused by the adult willingly engaging in gossip over recently separated or divorced friends and new programs in the city schools. Suddenly I had the urge to run after Sasha and deny the hands of time.

While mourning the passage of my youth, I struggled to pinpoint the tangible moment of transformation. When did conversations shift from dating to divorce? Entertainment, from movies to a DVD on Saturday night? When did I stop watching The Late Show and start watching Nightline? When did my definition of wrinkles become laugh lines?

Could this really be me I wondered picking slowly at the chocolate cake, concerned about my expanding waistline? Fat content? Cholesterol? No turning back now I thought as I graciously accepted another cup of coffee. I don’t feel old but tell tale signs gnaw at me. I’ve lost the ability to stay awake past eleven when I used to dance till dawn. I would have lost those fifteen extra pounds sooner if I really believed how hard it would eventually become. You know, that day in the future when your metabolism slows down.

But here I am. Losing count of the times I find myself pausing mid-sentence to place a faintly familiar phrase. Ah yes, something my mother said…a long time ago. Was it really that long ago? Who thought I’d be here so quickly, mimicking conversations I ran from, while prisoner at my parents dinner table. Ageing is yes, just a state of mind and perceptions formed in youth – mercilessly destroyed as we reluctantly pass through life cycles. At twenty-five-years old I was sure that by thirty-five I’d be settled, by forty-five I’d be old and by fifty-five, well, I’d have all of life’s answers and retire.

Rethinking that timeline I realize twenty-five is young, at thirty-five people are still discovering, forty-five is an age where you hope to be finally content and at fifty-five, you’re lucky if you can retire. The frightening bit of knowledge imparted from my youth is that, at no point does anyone have any of life’s answers. The body ages, but the mind…the mind is always that child, looking to be excused from the table.

These days when visiting my parents, decaf coffee is served and the conversations revolve around retirement, grandchildren, tax shelters, and smaller homes since yes, the children have grown. I know they feel my anticipation as I fidget, fighting the obligatory tugs to tune out their words, grab my desert and call a friend – seeking out more relevant conversations. But I graciously accept the decaf, realizing I’ll be repeating those words at one point in the not too distant future. Knowledge I owe to a fourteen year older named Sasha.