Anyone who knows me knows that I am not affected by numbers. To me, numbers are just shapes. I have to work pretty hard to make them mean something to me. And I do; I can get by, I can run a business and a household...the left side of my brain isn't completely empty, it's just mushy.
The numbers that really mess with me, though, are the ones assigned to how many years I've been on this earth. They make absolutely no sense, seem completely foreign and not at all indicative of just how grownup I think I am. Today I am assigned a new set of those. I suppose they are nice shapes, the new numbers...neat and tidy in a way. Good combination of straight and curvy lines. But I can't help but make a face when I say them out loud in reference to myself. Doesn't feel like they really describe me. Makes me sound old.
So to make myself feel better about that, today I am going to focus on and post pictures of things that are older than me. I don't have to look very far, most of the stuff I tend to surround myself with is older than me.
My house is older than me. Flattened-out tobacco tins were used as spacers between the cedar shakes on the original roof. I was fascinated at the original builder's frugal practicality and dug through the rubble on the ground when several generations of roofing material were removed, desperately trying to salvage every last one. I wondered if they smoked all that tobacco while building my house (if so, they probably did not live to be older than me so officially they can't be part of this post). This one sits in a bed of petrified wood chunks. Petrified wood is older than me.
This Douglas fir was probably planted in the front yard when the house was built. That makes him older than me too.
I'll keep that in mind when I'm faced with these new numbers. Shiny and sparkly. And younger than most rocks.