Lying about my age

I was one of the youngest kids in my class. I have a November birthday and started school at six, which means when the school year started in August, I was four months into my sixth year. I didn’t go to preschool or kindergarten. Went straight to first grade. Got stood in the corner on my first day of school, by the way—talk about a trauma. I colored my picture before Sister Mary Savio gave me permission to start. Weird reason for standing a kid in the corner in my opinion. But there you go.

 
But this blog isn’t to lament or complain about the educational system, it’s to explain why I’ve always been confused about my age. I graduated high school at 17 (May), which means I went to college in August at 17. Every one of my friends was older than me, and I just had to pretend to be mature. Ha ha.

 
So imagine when you’re at college and everyone has turned 21 and you guessed it—I’m still 20. I either have to stay home or get a fake ID to go with my friends. I never had a fake ID. Looking back, I must have stayed home, although I don’t remember feeling too deprived.

 
I met my husband at 25; he was 28. By then differing ages had little consequences. I didn’t have school or legal age limit to define me, all was cool. Now you’ve been dying to turn 21, and suddenly 30 hits you and you think, cool, I’m still young. You hit 40, you’re starting to look for wrinkles. Fifty, bleh, but consider the alternative, it’s still manageable and then it simply doesn’t matter. You don’t have those mile markers making you pay attention to your age.

 
Now, my husband is three years older than me. He’s a number’s guy and he just turned 60 years old. I may not keep track of my age, but for some reason he does. Maybe he plans after 32 years of marriage to trade me in on a younger model. But again, I digress. Anyway, we were out to dinner with friends and I was telling my friend I feel pretty okay about being 58 years old. My husband looked across the table at me and shook his head.

 
What? I ask. I don’t feel okay?

 
You’re not 58; you’re 57.

 

I’m such a liar.

 
Do you lose track of your age, or is it just me?