Yesterday, Scott was filling out a census form & asked me how old I was, "26, right?"
I paused & responded, "No. I'm 25."
"No . . . you're 26."
"No I'm not." I started counting my fingers to figure out how old I was. He was right! I double checked only to get the same result. What?!
This last week, a few people have asked me how old I was. (If it's cutting it even semi-close to my birthday (meaning within six months of it), I'll sometimes lean towards the older side by saying, "almost #__." I tend to claim the older age because so many people think I'm still in high school. Some guy checking my driver's license at the bookstore even asked where I got my fake ID . . . while I had Will with me!) Well I haven't even been hesitating this last week while informing people that I'm 25 - the sister missionaries who came to dinner at my parents' house (who thought I was still in high school even though I'm older than they are) & some of my friends. So for anyone who's wondering, I've done the math, & I am indeed 26 years old! I never would have thought I'd be someone to not know her age - I was always so surprised when I was younger to see "older" people trying to remember how old they were. Weren't they counting down the days till their next birthday? I was!
So there you have it. I am officially "old" (or so I would have thought when I was younger) because my brain is fried, I'm delusional, & I'm counting my age on my fingers. So excuse me while I go put in my denchers, sit in my big La-Z-Boy recliner & read my grandma's big-print Romance novels while drinking prune juice :)