Last week I was trying to figure out the age of an old friend and was using the ages of other old friends as benchmarks. The conversation with the Mister went something like this:
“So his brother was a sophomore when I was a junior, and he is a year older than my brother, and my brother is going to be … [math in my head] … 22… 22? That can’t be right, because I’m only… wait… how old am I?”
Yes. I actually and honestly did not know. The Mister said, “Well my birthday is on Sunday and I’m going to be 25, so that makes you….?” He waited for me to answer.
“24,” he said. “That makes you 24.”
When did I reach a point in my life where I not only don’t really care how old I am, but I didn’t even KNOW when prompted?
I can’t figure out if that’s normal or just depressing.
I guess I don’t really need it anymore though. It’s been more than a decade (wow, can I really say decade?) since someone crouched down in front of me and asked, “And how old are you, sweetie?” I mean, sometimes people at doctor’s offices need to know for whatever reason, and I suppose I give them the right answer, but if I hadn’t been born in a year ending in 0 – thus making my age match the last digit of whatever year we are in – I probably wouldn’t even be able to do that.
I’m me. I’m a young adult. So does it really matter? I’m inclined to say no, because the next time I need to know, I’m just going to ask my husband because Mr. Smarty-Pants seems to keep up with that sort of thing.
[And no, I probably won’t know off the top of my head how old my children are either. They’ll just be “babies” or “toddlers” or “in middle school” or whatever other obvious stage they’re in at the time and that’s what I’ll have written on their birthday cakes too. It just makes everything easier.]
Happy Wednesday, and may the odds be ever in your favor.