Meeting Margaret Atwood

I’ve wanted to meet Margaret Atwood for a long time. I first read her in high school; the essay I wrote to get into my PhD program was on her; my dissertation was about her work; my Atwood reading group has been meeting weekly for six years or so. As the former President of the Margaret Atwood Society, I have had the opportunity to correspond with her (with her assistants, probably, but still).
Thus, I was very excited to be in the same room with her last week. My friend and colleague, Ted, who had hosted Atwood at his institution earlier this year, introduced us. I mentioned that I was the former President and, smiling, she asked if I’d been deposed. I explained that it had been a peaceful transfer of power. A few hours later, I was able to get her autograph, though by that time, I’d become Karmel, apparently.
The great disappointment was finding out that a lunch I’d skipped at the conference had her in attendance–I might have been able to have lunch with her! Oh, well, next time.
What struck me most about her was how luminous she was–she glows. I hope I look half as good when I’m in my early seventies. I hope I’m as smart and funny, too, but somehow I doubt it–I’d have to reach her level before I started worrying about whether age could take that level from me.
She was also shorter than I expected.
And how must I have seen to her? Young and giddy.
It made me think about how young I am, actually, which is why I was really surprised to have my friend Jason say that he had met a “fan” of mine while out smoking at one of the events. She apparently asked him what drew him to the event. He started to say he was there with his friend, but she cut him off and said “Karma.” She then went on to say that she’d read some of my work and that she’d heard me speak and that while she was an Atwood scholar, she wasn’t at my level.
Is this middle age? Feeling constantly like a child, while tired like an older person? Revering some and being revered by others?