A few weeks ago, I did something I had not done in more than half a century. I applied for admission to a master's degree program.

The last time I took a school examination was in 1973.

To put that in perspective, that was before personal computers, before the internet, before mobile phones, before social media, and before many of my prospective classmates were even born.

Still, I approached the application process with quiet confidence.

After all, I had spent about 50 years in journalism. I had written hundreds of articles, edited hundreds more, interviewed presidents, business leaders, celebrities, athletes, and ordinary people with extraordinary stories. I had accumulated enough certificates, plaques, and credentials to occupy a respectable section of a bookshelf.

Surely that counted for something.

I submitted my documents and waited. Soon, a letter arrived from the university. I opened it, expecting something along the lines of: "Welcome. Here is your student number. Classes begin shortly."

Instead, the letter politely informed me that my application documents had been evaluated and accepted.

Excellent, I thought. Then I continued reading. I had passed Step One.

Step One? Apparently, there was also a Step Two: The admission examination.

And after that, a Step Three: The interview.

I stared at the letter for several seconds. Had they not noticed deep laugh lines and drooping jaw in my ID photo?

Did they not realize I had already spent decades surviving newsroom deadlines, elections, typhoons, and editorial meetings?

Surely there should be a Senior Citizen Express Lane for applicants.

Unfortunately, the university appears committed to treating me exactly like every other applicant.

I must admit that this came as a surprise. For years, I was the one evaluating applicants for internships and entry-level jobs. Now somebody else is evaluating me.

Life has a marvelous sense of humor. The more I thought about it, the funnier it became.

If I am admitted, there is a good chance some of my classmates will be younger than my journalism career.

When I started as a reporter, stories were typed on typewriters. We corrected mistakes with correction fluid. We filed stories through methods that today's students would probably mistake for historical reenactments.

Today's students save documents to the cloud. Back then, we were just hoping the paper would not fly away.

They grew up with Google. I grew up with libraries.

They stream videos. I remember rewinding cassette tapes with a pencil.

And yet, despite the differences, we will all be there for the same reason: to learn.

That realization has been unexpectedly comforting.

For many years, I was the one asking the questions from applicants and reporters whose stories lacked details. If I enter graduate school, I will once again become the person looking for answers.

There is something humbling about that. There is also something exciting.

At an age when many people assume that their biggest adventures are behind them, I find myself worrying about entrance examinations, reading application requirements, and wondering whether I still remember how to be a student. (My children have warned me that being active in class might project the voice-of-experience arguments which may antagonize professors and even my classmates.)

While I’m just listening, can I still take notes fast enough? Can I survive group projects? Can I stay awake through academic theories after decades of newsroom deadlines?

Most importantly, can I pass an examination which may require a QR code or a Google file or a link I have to open? I hope I will be allowed to call my lifeline – my son-in-law who keeps all my passwords in his phone.

The truth is that I do not know whether I will pass the exam or succeed in the interview.

What I do know is that applying has already taught me something valuable: Curiosity does not retire. The desire to learn does not disappear with age.

And perhaps staying young has less to do with the number of candles on a birthday cake than with the willingness to begin again.

If I do get admitted, I hope my future classmates will forgive me when I occasionally begin a sentence with, "Back in my day..." or I suddenly ask my seatmate to read the notes because I forgot my reading glasses!

I hope they will teach me everything they know about the future. (Email: [email protected])