…. that’s the day I was born. So if we count backwards on our fingers and toes and then two more fingers we’ll arrive at the groundbreaking realization that I am not, in fact, 23 years old. I’m 22 and will remain so for a couple more months.
During this time I will cling desperately to this fleeting age in a tradition that I started right before I turned 18. This year will be especially hard on me though because everyone is already prematurely referring to me as 23. One article, written months ago, even said “at the tender age of 23.” My mother was visiting last weekend and she stopped and said, “how old are you now, 23?”, to which I answered, “only if you’re 48.” And she got the point.
Now the fake myspace pages that people are making are even worse. One says I’m 27. Not cool. I refuse to age at any rate faster than what the calendar is forcing on me.