Last summer, I was on vacation in rural Vermont. This phrase is semi-redundant since 90% (that’s a guess, and it might be low) of Vermont is rural. Not to sound like I don’t like Vermont. Vermont is beautiful in a “maybe I could move here” kind of way. It inspires a kind of false nostalgia for a lived experience that you have probably never had, but that you’re sure you would enjoy, until you remember what February in Vermont feels like. I say feels like, because February in Vermont still looks like a postcard, snow drifts and mountains and barns but when you are outside with those snow drifts and mountains and barns, you are in real danger of freezing to death.

Vermont was beautiful, and there are a surprising number of things to do while vacationing there at a time when you can’t ski. Of course, all these things are 30 miles away from each other, which doesn’t sound like a lot until you realize that 30 miles on a map is actually 50 miles of winding roads which may or may not include Siri leading you on to a dirt road where you don’t dare drive more than 18 miles per hour unless you want to test the suspension on a rented Kia Forte. 

One of the places we visited was a small National Park in Woodstock, Vermont. I think they said it was the smallest National Park in the country. Or maybe it’s the newest. It could be it was both of those things. The park was basically a few acres of land, a house that a Rockefeller lived in, and a visitor’s center/gift shop that was very well appointed with information, things to buy, activities for children and air conditioning for the adults to sit in while they encouraged the children to choose another coloring page. 

I was visiting the park with my husband and my sister’s family. My sister, my brother in law and their two children had driven up to visit us while we were in Vermont and we all found ourselves at the (very small) National Park. 

While the adult men took my nephew to ‘hike’ around the grounds, my sister and I sat in the air conditioning with my niece, who was a few months past her second birthday. My sister and I chatted, and sat, which was the whole point of being in the visitor center and not on the hike with the boys. My niece brought us coloring pages and baskets with crayons and was generally adorable in the way that children who aren’t yours can be when you know that you don’t have to try and get them to take a nap later.

When the boys got back, we made our way to the park ranger at the front desk to get the Jr. Ranger badge that had been the endgame for the hike. The ranger was tall, maybe 6’1” or 6’2”, and taller and more imposing with his ranger hat. I forget his name, but he was encouraging of my nephew, and performed a little swearing-in ceremony that we videoed and will probably never watch again. The ranger had white hair and the detached yet friendly demeanor of someone who understands that he is supposed to be welcoming and accessible, but would be happier outside talking to a tree.

After the swearing in ceremony and the obligatory urging to the children to pick out a souvenir, I found myself at the desk handing over a pair of small binoculars and a stuffed owl to be purchased. Unfortunately, the state of the art pay station was having internet issues, which meant that the ranger wrote out the amount of my purchase and calculated the tax by hand.

This left us time to chat. Too much time, because after the obligatory questions and answers about our visit, he handed over my purchases and asked, without a shred of hesitation or wonder, “Are those your grandkids?”

I’m not vain. At least I didn’t think I was vain until the ranger’s question knocked the air out of my lungs and the idea that I was ‘aging well’ out of my brain. Surely no one could think that I was a grandmother. Only, someone did think that I was a grandmother. And he was standing right in front of me, waiting for my answer and completely unaware that he had just shattered a woman’s entire identity construct. 

“No,” I said, letting out a small laugh and trying to sound casual, but also with a touch of reprimand. “They’re my niece and nephew.”

“Oh. Well, here you go.” He handed over the owl and binoculars without a tinge of guilt or apology.

“Thank you.” I said, even though I didn’t mean it.

I told my sister what the ranger had said.

“No way, that’s ridiculous.” She said as she handed my niece the stuffed owl. 

But it’s not ridiculous. It’s reality. A reality that some days is easier to deal with than others. I get to choose everyday if I’m going to be grateful for being a healthy, semi-fit 50-something or If I’ll be an age lamenting, shriveled ball of age anxiety, willing to believe any Instagram ad that promises to fix my neck and avoiding eye contact with the self checkout video feed (really Target, for the money me and my middle aged tribe spend, you should throw a filter on that).

For today, I will try to be grateful and to that end,  I will avoid self checkout cameras, Instagram targeted ads, helpful but oblivious park rangers, car visor mirrors in the midday sun, the line with the checker that calls me ma’am, etc., etc. Basically any interactions with people, all photo/video products, and reflective surfaces of any kind. 

It might be easier to just get a neck lift. Now that I’ve typed that there should be plenty of ads in my feed. Choice made.