![]() ![]() I prioritize relationships I find most important. I know who my people are and who they will be in the future. In my case, it’s meant security, confidence and contentment. Middle age, no matter what the exact number, is totally awesome. I didn’t really care how old I was (or wasn’t for that matter) because because I feel fulfilled at where I am in my life. Maybe, I am starting to lose it (this is probably the actual explanation.)Īfter some careful reflection, I decided none of that was it. Maybe it’s because my family has so much going on, I have stopped paying attention to details about myself. Maybe it’s because we are living in our seventh house in ten years of marriage, and I can’t even remember our billing zip code to get gas sometimes. Maybe it’s because I have little kids, and I am tired. Inversely, it made me wonder how I got here. There was no revelation that I had been blessed with an extra year of my life to live. There was no Running Man happy dance to celebrate being one year further from The Big 4-0. ![]() Guess what, I don’t give two biscuits about how old I am either. Thirteen-year-olds are really something, right? I knew I would never let myself get to that point. He finally figured it out, but I just could not fathom that you could be so flippant about such an important thing. “What?! How the heck do you not know how old you are?” I interrogated him. When I got to my dad, he responded simply, “I’m not sure” with no further explanation. I’d love to say I was really interested in this information from my friends and family, but in reality I just wanted to rub it in their faces that I was a teenager and they were not. I went around asking everyone how old they were. Rather than making me happy that I had immediately gained back a year of my life, my actual age hit me in an unexpected way. My assumption was that fiblet ceased to be told once you hit 21. I’m actually younger than I had been telling people. I needed the absolute certainty of a haphazard Google search rather than just trusting the person who I have lived with for the past decade. So, I Googled my age to prove that I was indeed right, as I always am.Īs a moderately well-functioning adult, I actually entered into the search bar of my computer, “How old is someone born November 28, 1981.” Welp, it turns out I was wrong. Even though what he was saying was correct, I couldn’t quite surrender to the facts. I couldn’t help but think, I cannot believe he doesn’t know how old I am. “Papa is nice to say that, but I’m really 38,” I said with a hint of resentment. She’s 37.” As a 38 year old man, he tacitly knows that all Women of a Certain Age take every inch of youth latitude afforded to them. ![]() “No, Sis, I am I 38,” I kindly responded. When my 7-year-old corrected her that I was indeed, 57, I felt the need to clarify. My adorable 3.5-year-old teeters between thinking I am five or 60. This tidbit about my age is completely unremarkable except for the fact that I spent six months of the past year of my life thinking I was 38. Kelly, so please feel comfortable to continue reading beyond this point. Happy 38th, I mean 37th, Birthday to Me! Happy 38th, I mean 37th, Birthday to Me! These outfits are shockingly similar to what my husband and I wear in real life on special occasions.Īge Ain’t Nothin’ But a Number. ![]()
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