I was 51. I got on an elevator at work alone. Slipping in just as the doors closed was a young woman who looked perfectly put together. An expensive skirt suit in a color that worked for her skin, perfectly done hair with professional highlights. A slender, athletic build. There was only one thought on my mind:

“I bet her father is really proud of her.”

When she got off of the elevator before me, I was still beaming with paternal admiration. I then thought, “Yup, I really am getting old.”