Let me start from the beginning. A few years ago, we're sitting at my Meme's house for Christmas and my Aunt Sue asks me something about my age and I tell her something about how I was ok with turning thirty in two years. How I'm ok with 28 and being in the twilight of my twenties. Here is {my best recollection of} the conversation that followed:
Dave: You're not 28.
Michelle: Yes, I am.
Dave: No, you're not.
Michelle: Dumbass, I'm pretty sure I know how old I am!
Dave: Well, you don't. You're 27.
Michelle: Dave, I know how old I am. I am 28.
Dave: Yeah, well, except you're 27.
Michelle: You are fucking crazy! I am 28!
Dave: No, you're not. You're 27.
Michelle: Meme! Where is your calculator so I can show him.
Dave: Yeah, go get the calculator.
Michelle: I will! *Runs in the kitchen and furiously punches in 2003 - 1976* 27 Crap. I had to have typed it in wrong. *Punch punch punch 2003 - 1976* Still 27. Fuck. I am 27.
Dave: You're 27, aren't you?
Michelle: Yeah. But, I've been telling people I'm 28 since my birthday! EIGHT MONTHS, I've been telling people I am 28. That's like the whole year!
Dave: But now you can tell people that you're 27.
So that's what I did. Just told everyone for the rest of the year, the whole 4 months I had left, that I was 27. But, I had to punch the date into the calculator tonight because I thought, oh crap, am I turning 35 next year? {I'm not, I'm turning 34.} Typing the date in reminded me that I still missed EIGHT months of my 27th year. So, here is what I propose... I think I should be able to tell people for the next eight months that I am 27. I mean, ok, so I am not a spring chicken and I'm not getting any younger, if I am going to take it back, now is the time. After all, a 27 year old who is fifty is just pathetic.
Think about it, for eight months, my husband could have a younger woman. I could be younger than
Happy Monday! Oh, and if you haven't done so, get your butt over to my little giveaway and ENTER! The drawing is tomorrow.