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.
#R KELLY AGE AINT NOTHIN BUT A NUMEBR CODE#
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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