I’m not sure I get what the big deal is. What’s wrong with wanting to know how old someone is? (I’m a lousy guesser.) I mean I can understand not asking a gal how much she weighs or how many fun-size Twix bars she ate last night after her kids were in bed or how many stretch marks she has after bearing one or more children–but her age? Where’s the shame in that? We’re all born at a certain point in time, and time keeps ticking on at the same rate for all of us, right?
You’re how old?!? Forty-two?!? Are you kidding me?!?! How could you have let that happen?!? You should know better!! For shame!
So, now that we all agree that age is NO BIG DEAL and we all get older and that getting older is actually really fun and cool, go ahead and spill the beans–how old are you?
I’ll start. I’m 33. I was born on Halloween in 1975. And 33 is my most favorite age so far. (well, except for the past couple weeks, but we’ll just toss those out) I’m now at an age that I can distinctly remember my mom being. That’s a little weird. I’m also the age Jesus was when He died. That’s disconcerting. And I’m the largest positive integer that can not be expressed as a sum of different triangular numbers (and you thought I only knew words).
I like it when younger women look up to me because I’m “experienced.” I don’t like how hard it is to keep my body in the kind of shape that would cause me to grin when I stand in front of a mirror naked. I like that I’ve survived childbirth and teething and potty-training multiple times. I don’t like that my oldest daughter is already 8 and will be taller than her mama in no time flat. I like that I’ve lived so much. I don’t like that I weigh what I did when I got married but somehow, some way, I can’t fit into the same size clothes without spilling and bulging all over the place. (?!?)
I remember eating at Ponderosa (gag me with a spoon!) with my family when I was in college. I was wearing a Curious George t-shirt and had my hair in a ponytail, and I must have looked pretty young, because the waitress thought my 6-years-younger sister, Bethany, was older than me. She looked all put together, and I looked little-kiddish. We’ve since re-assumed our correct roles. She’s a fresh young 27 now with the occasional spunky braids, pink shoes and Strawberry Shortcake t-shirts. She looks 19, and I look 39.
But wait. I have an awful story. My 9-years-younger sister, Stephanie, and I were garage-saling with Livi and Ava when I was pregnant with Nina. I was looking at baby clothes, and the lady said, “Do you know what you’re having?” “Yes, a girl.” She looked over at Steph, Livi and Ava, then turned to me and said, “Four girls! Wow!” Oh my stinking word. Please don’t tell me I look old enough to have birthed my 20-year-old sister. You’ll be getting no business of mine! Funny thing was, Stephi was offended too. “How young does she think I am? I do not look young enough to be your daughter!” I was all, “Dude! She thinks I’m your MOM! Dude!”
It gets worse. Gabe’s mom was visiting our church one weekend, and we were dropping the girls off at their class. The teacher (who knows me) looked at me and Janelle and said, “Oh, wow. Is this your sister?” Oh, heaven help us. Now, granted, my MIL isn’t some old bid, and she’s only 17 years older than me. But still. Will someone please give me a break? Please? Anyone?
I’d love to know how old you are. And what you like about your age. And if you’re feeling brave, you can even tell me how old people usually think you are. At the end of the day, I’m going to take the youngest age and the oldest age and randomly generate an integer somewhere in between. Let’s say the lucky number is 46. Anyone who’s 46 and left a comment will win a silly little prize that I will handpick from somewhere in my house and mail to you. Watch out–it could be fabulous.
2 things– 1.) your age. 2.) your favorite thing about being that young.
This is going to be fun!