I was coming back from London the other day via Hawaii (she says, modestly), when the American passport officer asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was a travel writer coming back from London via Hawaii and he leafed through my passport looking at all the stamps.
“Wow,” he said. “What am amazing job. How did you get to do that?”
“I waited,” I said. “And I’m old.”
He looked at the date in my passport.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Good for you.”
“What? You? 52? Get outta here,” would have been good too.
But this is where 52 has got me and only a dang fool would complain about their age when it’s only because of it that they have got to do what they love - and get paid for it.
Here’s how I got to be me (although obviously I am skipping the bad bits, of which there are quite a few, but you are busy and can’t spend all day scrolling through websites, so I’ve kept it brief. Ish).