In the last week I have baffled two people with the revelation that I do not, off hand, recolect how old I am.
The first time was when I was rescued from the snow drift. One of the teenagers asked me how old I was in a preface toward hitting on me.
I “Age? Oh Gosh, I don’t know.” Rapidly performed arithmatic. “27-28? One of those two.”
He, incredulously, “You don’t know how old you are?”
I, shrugging, “Well it’s not like it matters most of the time.”
I had a longer conversation with the second person. We were just chatting and she asked, respectfully, “Why don’t you remember your age?”
It took some thought to reach an answer. But in the end I was able to explain.
Age is a measuring tool for health and ability. However, my family has had many and various struggles with illness that prevent this number from being accurate. We all tend to be much older than our age.
Worse, from an age accuracy perspective, my parents taught us kids to think when we were young. Introspective analysis, which has served me well my entire life, is not expected from a child or teenager making any age judgement very difficult. Strangers generally thought I was 17-24 when I was 14-16. The bonous from this is that I learned a wide range of social skills and am comfortable interacting with people from all ages.
Mind there were/are definate lapses. I do have a temper on me. But it generally only shows when I am with people I’m extremely comfortable around, which is usually at home.
The end of it all is that I still don’t really know how old I am and I don’t think I’m going to remember it anytome soon. I remember the important numbers like birthday, social, and phone. My age? To me it is a broken measure for maturity.