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The Truth Hurts



When I turned 25, it was like a mid-life crisis for me.

In five more years, I’ll be thirty. I’m a quarter or a century. I think I was bed-ridden for days. Once I passed that little setback, I was fine. I actually started to round up in age. I was finally over the fact that I was getting “old”. Even though my birthday isn’t until the end of January, I always round up and when people ask me how old I am, I tell them I’m 27. Because, after all, I’m totally over the fact that your age is what makes you old. I’m so cool and “don’t care” that I’ll tell people I’m older than I really am.

So, I was registering the other day for a the 5k I’m doing next weekend and filling in all the information. There’s a minimum age requirement, so I skimmed across the section that said something about having to be at least nine on 9/14, or something like that, and then a lot of other stuff that sounded like yada, yada, yada.

It asked for my birthday, I put it in. Then it preceded to tell me that I’m 27.

What the heck. Only I’m allowed to round up on my age. Not some 5k online registration form. Then I remembered that thing about having to be 9 by 9/14 and I thought that had come into play, but the more I thought about it, the more confused I got. I held out my hands and did the math on my fingers.

Oh crap…..

I’m 27 turning 28. NOT 26 turning 27.

For two years I’ve been lying to myself/others—and believing—that I’m only 26. I’m not. I’m 27.

I told Hubby my revelation when we were driving home from work. His response? “What do you mean you’re turning 28?!?! I thought you were turning 26!”

And that’s why I dyed my hair brown. Not knowing my own age was a serious blonde moment. But I have to laugh, otherwise I’ll cry. I’m 27, folks. In a few short months, I’ll be 28.

Excuse me; I need to go get a tissue.

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