The observation that is sometimes advice and sometimes a bumper sticker for the deluded that ‘you are who you pretend to be’ struck me today as I was walking my dogs pretending to be the same person I’ve always been.

I walk in my jeans and a long fleece jacket that I bought at Goodwill a dozen years ago and think of throwing out every year. It has deep pockets though, good for dog bags and keys, and it zips to the neck. It’s perfect for fall so why would I throw it out? Besides, it’s what I wore five years ago, ten years ago. It’s the same. I’m the same.

I never feel old unless I have to talk to someone or, worse, listen to someone talk to me. That’s when my increasingly ridiculous and awful hearing impairment kicks in, making communication an exercise in shouting and pantomime. I suggested to someone today that they try interpretive dance. They waved their arms like they thought I was joking.

Anyway, I walk along as if I’m 57 or 47 or 37 instead of 67. The air is clean, the trees are beautiful, people have mums and pumpkins on their porches and I could be anyone of any age. I am just a person in the world, ageless, timeless.

And then across the street I see someone I know, a friend of a friend, someone I’ve had dinner with a few times many years ago and heard about regularly from the friend we share. He is walking with his hands behind his back. He is white-haired, slight, pensive, and bent over at the waist. He keeps a steady pace, holds a conversation with his upright companion, but he must arch his neck to look ahead.

I don’t call out to him. I keep walking with my dogs. But I look back a couple of times, wanting to confirm that the person I saw was the person I knew. And he was. Nothing about how he was walking seemed temporary. This was him now.

Rounding the corner, I wonder how long I can fool myself. How long can the bubble of my self-perception protect me from the reality that ahead of me is 77 and 87 and, maybe, possibly 97.

Does the bubble just burst one day? With no warning? And then suddenly I won’t be myself. Not ageless, timeless. There will be no more being what I pretend to be. I will just have to be what I am. The lovely pretending will be over.

I wonder. Maybe it lasts forever. Maybe my friend of a friend across the street was still being who he pretended to be and happy doing it and I just couldn’t tell.

It’s not for me to know, I guess. I should just keep walking and looking straight ahead.