I've been thinking a lot about age lately.
Three mistakes in the last year have made me giggle:
1) When I got my hair done on the Upper West Side, the guy washing my hair asked me if I was at Columbia undergrad.
2) When I had my hair in pigtail braids, the guy manning the desk at a DC museum asked me if I was there for the tutoring sessions.
3) The golf tournament intern this year thought I was his age, or least the sage old age of 25.
I said yes to all three. Shoot, better take it while you can get it, I say.
Earlier this week, when I tried to gracefully (ok, not really) avoid telling my age to a guy (a whole teenager younger than me), I was hoisted by my own Facebook petard - he totally stalked my FB profile, and deduced my age from my graduating years for college and high school. When I told him I was totally editing said profile asap, he plaintively asked, "What does it matter?!"
And you know what? Good question.
Honestly, I've never been afraid to tell people how old I am. Like ever.
Because right now, I don't feel it. You know how when you talk to (really) old people, they say they don't feel their age? That they're always surprised when they see their old faces in the mirror looking back at them, because in their heads they'll always be some young number (usually attached to their most formative years)?
I don't feel anywhere close to the age I am, and to be fair, I sure as hell don't act like it. Call me Peter Pan, or young at heart, or whatever. But I honestly don't see the point in being burdened down by age. Yet.
Obviously, as I get older, I reserve the right to change my mind...this will probably happen the day someone guesses my real age on first try.
Ya'll steer clear. And look at me only in dim lighting. Thanks.
Hah. So much for damn the age torpedoes.