In Which I Begin Lying About My Age

My age has never, ever bothered me.

Until recently.

Maybe it's all the lusting after young men.
(I'm looking at you, Robert Pattinson - purrrrrr).

Maybe it's that we're hiring what appear to be children at work and suddenly I'm one of the the oldest hens in the coop.

Or *maybe* it's that everyone else's obsession with A Number, which I've always been able to laugh at and ignore, is finally getting to me.

Whatever drove me to it - the devil made me do it? - I lied about my age this week.

I only lied to an online form...it isn't like I looked someone in the eyes and knocked 10 years off my age...but still. I did it. And it felt right. And I'm going to continue the practice until I can't get away with it anymore.

People always tell me that I don't look my age.
(I attribute this to a chubby Polish face: The fat fills in the wrinkles).

I certainly don't feel my age. And God and everyone knows I don't behave like many women my age.

So why should I let The Number dictate how people perceive me?

Sooooo...a few days ago I was registering for...something, I don't remember what (okay now the memory thing is something I can't fake)...and I had to offer up my DOB.

As I hovered over the *correct* year, I just couldn't click on it. It seemed WAY too far away. In the DISTANT past. As in, none of my current professional peers were born in that decade. So I kept scrolling and changed that six to a seven.

And I'll do it again. Hell, my hair color is my choice, why should my age be any different?