There’s a chance fore me yet.
My parents were in their early fifties when I turned 22 and the chasm that separated us seemed unbridgeable. My father had his hat and tie on everywhere he went-even when he mowed the lawn. My mother kept indoors most of the time and warned us girls that no man would marry a woman made brown by the sun. I used to wonder if their brains had turned to mush.
Now I look at my 22 year old son and chuckle at the chasm that yawns between us. With his mp3 looped permanently over his neck, pants baggy and cuffed, he looks like an alien from a distant star. I have no doubt the as far as he is concerned, my brain has gone to mush.
Yet great as these differences seem, research suggests that there is very little difference in capacity between a 50 year old and a 25…
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