A friend of mine at work refuses to truly reveal her age. She always refers to her age by narrowing it down within the 30-s decade.
I find it amusing, as I think she is closer to my age than she would care to admit.
I'm trying to be cavalier about it, as I'm adopting a new attitude towards aging in general. I told her the last time she was referring to her age that she shouldn't worry about it. "It's just a number," I assured her. "Who cares?"
The last week of school, Ryan was obsessed with my age. "Mommy, what years are you?"
"Huh? Oh, how old am I?"
"Yes. My teacher asked me how old you were, and I said you were forty. Because I couldn't remember your years."
I choked on my water, and nearly pulled over.
(Sure, it's just a number. But it's not the right number, and I just can't be cavalier about that.)
"I am most assuredly NOT forty," I told him.
"Ryan, she's thirty-seven," Nolan chimed in.
"Tomorrow, you make sure you tell your teacher the right years." I added.
Ryan never got around to it. I'm forty, according to him, and should I try to correct it with the teacher when I see her next, is she really gonna believe me?
He doesn't know my years.
He knows my heart.