Okay, I am 39 years old. And that sort of sucks. Not that 39 is a bad age, but when someone asks now, I will say I am 39 and almost no one will believe me.
When I was growing up, I had an aunt who was 39 for about 15 years. So if you asked her your age, you would assume she was older. I am 39, and if anyone asks (and I tell the truth), they may not believe me. I don't lie about my age – never really thought about it. Until now.
I have heard that age is just a number. I don't believe it, though. I mean, my bank account balance is just a number, but those rat bastards at the bank charge me $15 if I don't have sufficient funds and write a check. I can just imagine me saying, "You know, my bank account balance is just a number." And if I said that, I am sure the teller would laugh themselves into a tizzy.
Numbers can be important. At least that's what the drug companies tell you – with cholesterol, blood sugar, whatever. Or even bed companies. The Old Bionic Woman is sleep number 35. What's your sleep number? Numbers are important. Age does matter, but it is not everything. My 39-year-old aunt was a vivacious woman – a crazy woman, a woman who acted 21 even into her fifties. But when she was in her fifties, she no longer ran naked through sprinklers (she could twist and ankle). But she still shocked her kids.
Now, I don't really mind if people know I am 39. But when people ask, I think I will whip out my driver's license and prove that I am 39. Of course, the driver's license may not prove I am an American. But that is a discussion for another day.
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