If I told you my favorite foods are liver and brussels sprouts, you might wonder about the mother who raised me and question how I survived to adulthood. If you knew her, you'd understand.
If I told you I smoked Gauloise cigarettes in my youth and colored my hair with henna, you'd accept that as a rite of passage, perhaps. You'd be right if you suspected it didn't take long for me to outgrow that phase.
If I told you I once lived in a home situated on a lot the length of football field in an exclusive suburb of a major city, you might not believe me. Someone who grew up in Dowagiac could never have lived in a house with Corian counters, a heated garage and gutter cables that melted the ice-dams on the slate roof, but honestly, I did that, too.
If I told you I visited Iceland in February when I was 45 and visited the Penis Museum while I was there, you might be shocked, unless you've realized that middle age creeps up on us. Before we know it, we're old and grey.
I wasn't ready for that to happen. I'm not sure what it means to be "old."