When I was a little kid, I always knew how old I was even to the fraction of a year. ("I'm 7 and three-quarters!") And you always wanted to be older than you were, too-- one day past your 9th birthday, and you were almost 10. You couldn't wait until you were 16 and could drive. Then it was on to the Magical Age of 18. And then 21.
Then, inexplicably, sometime in my mid-20's, I realized I was losing touch with my age. People would ask me how old I was, and I'd actually have to think about it. And in my early 30's, I'd even have to resort to subtracting my birth year from the actual year to get it right.
It was about three months ago that it dawned on me that I had been telling everyone, for the past six months or so, that I was 38.
Ok, if I'm going to screw up my age, why did I decide to make myself older? Couldn't I have erred to the younger side of things?
Tomorrow, I will officially be 38. I will have grown into the age I thought I was. :)
22 minutes ago