No, this isn’t a post about that birthday tradition where people are so terrified of turning 30 that they stop counting at 29 and hold an annual celebration instead.
Today is my 2nd annual 28th birthday, because this I have spent the entire past year genuinely believing I was 28. Which I was not.
I can’t really tell you where the whole “I’ve incorrectly stated my age for the entire last year” pheneomenon started. Looking back, I do vaguely remember being excited by the presence of a 7 in my age (my favorite number to write- add THAT to your official Fun Facts About Lulu list).
Is it because there wasn’t a lot of pomp and circumstance surrounding my actual birthday day last year? I had decided to discontinue the habit of taking a vacation day from work off each birthday (well, I didn’t actually HAVE any vacation days to take off, since I had used up EVERY vacation day for the entire year by May 1st for our wedding and honeymoon. Leaving me with ONE bloody vacation days for 8 months of work. But I digress.) so maybe the lack of birthday attention contributed to the mishap.
Or maybe it was the fact that the Mr.’s a wee bit older than I am, and I’ve been focusing so much on his turning 30 next March, that I just sort of felt like I was close to 30 as well.
It could have also been that phenomenon that seems to occur where all 20-something ages, after you turn 25, seem to become fuzzy and sort of run together. Kind of like your memories of partying in college. (Not that I did any of that.) I know I’m not the only one who’s made this general observation on the “late twenties haze”, so I know it could have been a factor.
No matter the cause, the simple fact remains that I’ve honest-to-goodness thought I was 28 for the past 12 months. Case in point:
– While getting to know my new boss better, he asked my age (very courteously, I might add, which men have seemed to have forgotten these days.) “Why, I don’t mind you asking at all- I’m 28 years old” was my reply.
– While signing up for a membership at the local YMCA, I noticed that the staff quoted a different membership price than the one the Mr. had researched for me. “Well ma’am, the $30 fee is for those 27 years old and younger,” the kid replied. “Oh, that SILLY husband of mine!” was my response. “He doesn’t even know how old I am, and we’ve been together for 5 years!” So I signed up for the 28+ membership, which was $15 more per month.
-The final straw? While booking Miss E’s flight reservation for our recent trip to BlogHer, I had an epiphany. Which led to me freaking the heck out, because I felt AWFUL for not making a bigger deal out of E’s birthday 2 weeks prior. Because it was her 30th birthday and OMG what kind of friend am I for missing her 30th birthday! So I do what any self-respecting friend would do- text another person for ratting myself out on being such a bad friend.
To which our dear friend Lonnie told me that I must be smoking crack, because E just turned 29. Because she’s a smidge over a year older than us. Because we’re 27.
Because *we’re* 27.
Ahem. I was 27.
So happy 28th year of life to me. Again.