Today is a birthday. They’re smoking cigars.

Hello, 26.

Age doesn’t matter terrifically much to me.  In fact, whenever someone asks me how old I am, I usually tell them the wrong number because I honestly can’t remember.  I really think of my age in general demographics lumps.  It was only slightly tragic to leave the all-important 18-to-24.

I tried pretty hard to stay quiet about my birthday at work, but when one of our college-age freelance photographers asked me what I was doing for the 4th, I mentioned I’d be birthdaying.  My boss was nearby and he (had no idea it was my birthday but also) asked how old I’d be.  When I said it, he gave that wistful noise, wishing himself back to 26 and tons of college-age pussy.  The freelance photographer, however, simply said, “I would’ve thought that you were older.”

One of the salesgirls screeched and said, “That’s not what any woman wants to hear!”  But I just replied, “I would’ve, too.”

I feel older.  I don’t act like a twenty-something.  I always imagined my 20s would be fabulous.  I’m not fabulous.  I’m frumpy.  I’m the fat, weird, quiet girl in the office.  I don’t do fun shit.  I’m a homebody.  The youngest thing about me is my boyfriend (who, for a month, is 4 years my junior.  So I’m now a cougar.)  I’m kind of an old fart.

And that’s really okay with me.

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