Well, it's finally happened: I've gotten old. I've not come to that realization because of my wrinkles, my achy joints or my crotchety disposition of late, but because of how freakin' young those in the medical profession now seem to me.

My eyes began to open to this truth when noticing that doctors interviewed as experts on various news programs regularly caused Jim and me to comment, "Wow, that's a young one" and "Sheesh, has that kid really actually completed medical school?" Only old people say such things. Hence a conclusion began to form: I'm just old.

Then I started physical therapy to repair the damage from little cusshead Mickey pulling me into a face plant when a deer nonchalantly crossed our path during a walk a few months ago. My regular doctor referred me to a fine physical therapist. I read her impressive credentials (she's one of the physical therapists for the US Figure Skating team) then was shocked upon meeting her at my first appointment. She looks the same age as my youngest daughter! There's no way she could be just 25 since she's been practicing since the early '90s. She's performing miracles on my back and has clearly worked hard and long to get where she is in her career, so my conclusion is this: I'm just old.

The final incident relates to Megan's medical scare this past week. Because of the fortunate outcome of a worrisome circumstance, Megan gave thanks and gratitude to her ob/gyn on a recent blog post, a post that included a photo of the doctor. I have never met her doctor and I was amazed at how young this gal is -- this gal who holds the lives of my child AND my grandchild in her hands. Yet, her expertise in the field and the way she's proved herself exceptionally capable lead me to now stand firm in my conclusion: I'm just old.

When I first became a mother, doctors were older folks whom I looked upon with respect and admiration, much as I would a wise grandparent. As the years went by, doctors seemed a little more my age, like a colleague or friend or at least someone who enjoyed the same music and television shows as I did and understood the same pop culture references.

Now, all of a sudden, the doctors I come across are youngsters, many years behind me and certainly not interested in the same music or television shows that interest me. And I don't even seem to know what constitutes pop culture anymore, let alone share any references to it with today's doctors.

My only conclusion: I'm just old.

My only question: How the heck did that happen?

Photo: MS Office

Today's question:

In what ways do you most notice you're getting older?

I've always found it kind of odd when older women say they're one age, then it's found out they're actually older. I've read of this happening with celebrities and non-celebrities, where they've insisted for years that they're this old, then the truth came out upon the woman's death that they're that old, shocking adoring fans or family.

Tsk, tsk, I would think to myself. Is it really that important to pretend you're younger? Is one's vanity so paramount that they resort to lying to themselves and to others -- sometimes for years -- about their age?

Well, after a conversation Jim and I had the other night, I'm rethinking my tsk-tsking.

We were discussing my age -- for reasons related to my desire to join a group that had an age requirement -- when Jim said, "But you're XX, and that's close enough."

No, I clarified to my darling-yet-sometimes-forgetful honey, I'm actually XX, a year older than he thought.

"Lisa," he said slowly, as if addressing a child, "it's 2010. You were born in XXXX. You are going to be XX in June."

I thought about it, used my fingers to count out the years, cocked my head to the side like the dog does when he's perplexed, and let it sink in that he was right. I'm younger than I thought. I'm younger than I'd been telling people.

Wow! How wonderful to regain my youth so easily, so quickly, so much more inexpensively than by slathering on face creams and soaking up industrial-strength-for-resistant-gray hair color!

Hallelujah! I'm young again! Well, at least younger.

It led me to reconsider the women I'd bashed in the past for lying about their age. Maybe they weren't vain beauty queens trying to retain a smidgen of their youth. Maybe they weren't lying. Maybe they very innocently and honestly thought they were a certain age. Then each time they considered it or were questioned about it, that age remained the same ... for years ... possibly even dropped by a year or two or ten (hey, what's 10 years when you're 80, 90 years old?). They weren't cunning, conniving and conceited; they were just like me.

I read once that the mind can retain only a certain amount of information, so less important info is dropped -- forgotten -- in favor of newer, more important information. Maybe that's what the deal is with age: It's just not that important. Unless you're looking to reach legal drinking age, join AARP or fill out your retirement papers, age really doesn't matter. It's one of those bits of information the brain no longer needs.

So instead of internally bashing myself for seemingly becoming one of those women who lie about their age in the name of vanity or -- worse yet -- becoming so old I'm losing my memory and can't remember even the most basic of things, I've decided it's not that at all. It's actually that I've lived so long and I've learned so much that my brain is full. Yep, I've reached maximum brain capacity so the minutiae of my life must be dropped, deleted, purged in order for new and useful tidbits to be retained.

I'm not becoming a forgetful old woman after all. Nope, I'm young enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, I like myself!

(Now, if I start forgetting how old my children are, that's when I need to start worrying!)

Today's question:

Everyone has an age that they see themselves in their mind's eye, regardless of what they're seeing in the mirror. At what age do you usually think of yourself as still being?

My answer: I always think of myself as still being 27. Maybe it's because it's my favorite number, or maybe because it's the age I was when a major life event happened that changed my perception of myself -- kind of a "before" and "after" mark. So yeah, it's 27 for me. (Which is really kind of weird, now that I think of it, because my oldest daughter is 27!)