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The other day I couldn't remember how old I am. Seriously. I knew it was either 36 or 37, but I wasn't sure which. Neither one sounded right. But then I did the math.
2009-1972 =
thirty-SEVEN.
Shit.
I'm not sure why I couldn't remember my age. Maybe it's early onset Alzheimer's. Maybe it's too much aspartame. (I've been trying to kick Diet Coke for years, but if I did, how would I drink JD?)
Or maybe it's because I just don't feel 37. I don't even feel 36. I feel 28. Maybe 29. People who are 37 are supposed to be comfortable in their adulthood. I am not. People who are 37 are supposed to be fairly knowledgeable in their career. I am not. People who are 37 are supposed to know what their career is. I do not.
I'm not kidding. I really don't feel 37. Mentally, that is. Physically, I see the changes. A few more gray hairs. Some spider veins (which I didn't notice in the winter, darn swim-suit season). Wrinkles. Stubborn muffin-top. These annoyances, and a calendar, remind me of my age. My brain is slow to catch on, however.
And you know what? I'm OK with that. I just rue the day when my brain finally catches up. Man, what a post that will be.
