"Don't get older," he says often, "It sucks. Hold onto the good years while you can."
When Dan makes a joke I usually feel uncomfortable. Not because it's lewd or inappropriate. Because they are not funny and he always stares at me for a long time afterward, waiting with a creepy grin that seems to get closer to me the longer it takes for me to rally a smile. He smells like Listerine.
Two days ago Dan asked me if anyone hit on me recently. His awkward gesture of conversation was not out of character.
"Well, not really, but a man in the park said I was beautiful."
"Looks like you've still got it," said Dan.
The comment landed with a thunk. Still got it?
He waited, grinning, getting closer.
Have I reached a point in life now where I could soon lose it? Woah. I'm already 29 years old.
The Listerine smell became stronger. I made the face kids make when asked to smile for a camera - more like a fear grimace - teeth bared, eyes squinty.
I'm afraid of getting older.
***
Later, while waiting in line at the Whole Foods Market, I watched a young boy drive his left thumb in front of his face, turning it into a space ship with accompanying sound effects. It became obvious that he had been separated from his guardian. There were no grown-ups checking on him. He stood in front of the check-out, beneath the friendly robot directing patrons to their respective registers, looking out at the ordered cluster.
I walked over and asked him if he was with someone.
"Yes, I am here with my dad."
"Where is he?"
"He is in there." He pointed with his thumb, gesturing at the mess of people.
I shrank myself to his size and saw only legs and purses.
"What's his name?"
"Um, his name is Murray. And my mom's name is Cheryl."
At this point the crowd was beginning to spoil. It is upsetting to have a woman and a little boy blocking the path to the registers with slow talk like this. "Let's go find him," I suggested. "Do you want to hold my hand?"
I felt his tiny palm against my own and we walked to customer service.
I asked him how old he was. He said five.
"Five," I echoed, bright-eyed and over zealous. "Wow."
"Yes! And I'm also three!" he jumped when he said it.
When I heard this it threw me into days of contemplation.
I'm twenty-nine. And I'm fifteen. And I'm five. And I'm also three.
***
I was walking around Washington Square Park just after sunset. A large tree caught my attention. There was a woman standing at the base of it feeding squirrels. She pulled peanuts out of a bag and the arboreal rodents snatched them from her hands. There were so many it looked like ants swarming a piece of candy. I asked her if I could feed them too.
"No, it's very dangerous unless you know what you're doing."
"Okay," I said, but I was visibly disappointed. I didn't want her to feel bad for saying no, so I continued conversation. "It's an amazing tree."
"Yes. It's the oldest tree in Manhattan," she said. "A historic tree." Or maybe she said, "An historic tree."
I thought about trees. Trees acquire rings. But they don't lose them. A six-hundred year old tree has six hundred rings. And it also has three.
***
"Me llamo Juan," she announced moving the puppet's hand and speaking in a demure baritone. "Tengo 75 años."
"Como yo," Adriana responded, in her own voice.
"Si, tengo 75 años como tú," said puppet Juan. I have 75 years...
***
I've still got it. You're right Dan. I always will. Maybe I don't have to hold on to anything. Even when I'm 75 I will have them - the rings of 3 and 16 and 29… But I'm still a little afraid.
