I can usually keep in mind that I’m somewhere between 23 and 28, but I don’t really think about it that often. Several people I work with have turned 30 in the past year, and I just remember I’m a few years younger than so-and-so. The math has always been (a little) tricky for me because I was born late in the year, so most of the year I have to subtract one from what I think it is. Fr’instance, this year I’d be 27 I think, but not til October.
Every now and then when doing homework or writing checks, I’ll forget the year. I think the most I’ve been off was in 1997 I wrote a series of checks that said 1986. Usually the day is right, but frequently I don’t know the month. When I ask the clerk “What month is it?” and then “What year is it?” I’m sure they question my validity as a check-writer.
I was thinking to myself recently that when I was six years old, I thought my mom was old. Now, I’m the same age that my mother was back then. I wonder if my kids think I’m old. I also keep on thinking that come this September, I’m going to be 30. What the hell! 30! How did that happen, and where did all the time go?
I am lucky- I was born at the end of '69 (which is worth a laugh every time). So, in 1988, I was 18, in 1992, I was 22. Makes it easy, so long as I remember what year it is
BTW, I remember thinking about year 2000 when I was a kid- I thought, “I’ll be 30! That’s sooo-oo-o old!”
Ah, kids.
Dizzy
You people have been holding me back long enough! I’m going to clown college!
This used to happen to me in my late twenties, also. A real conversation I recall having:
Person: “How old are you?”
Me (without really thinking): “I’m 26.”
Conversation continues with me doing math in my head and then interrupting . . “Actually, I’m 29. I don’t know why I said I was 26.”
And I really didn’t know why I’d said that. It was like when I said it, I believed it to be true. It’s not like I’d lie about my age – who cares? If I didn’t want people to know my real age, I wouldn’t tell them my age at all; I wouldn’t lie about it.
Now I’m 30, and that seems easier to remember, fortunately.
I go through a similar thing with the sibling thing.
Person: so do you have any brothers or sisters?
Me: No, I’m an only child.
(a few minutes later in the conversation)
Me: Wait, actually I have …um…one…two…um 3 brothers and 2 sisters.
And it’s gonna change this summer to either 4/2 or 3/3 and I’m gonna get even more confused.
Forget about remembering my own age (I’m 33). It’s my siblings’ ages I can’t keep track of. Every time I remember a brother’s age, he pulls a fast one and has another birthday! Dirty rotten scoundrels…
Irishman: actually the reason is that I’m almost 28 now, but I was an only child until I was 21, at which point my dad remarried and started a huge family. I was already married for 2 years when I became a sister for the first time… and it’s still a new thing to me.
I had my oldest when I was 20, so I usually use his age to figure out how old I am. I try not to do it out loud, though, otherwise people look at me kind of strangely.
I agree with Shadowfox, I don’t know where I was, but I don’t know where all that time between 19 and 33 went.
It is sad, and I hate to admit it, but the other night when I was trying to go to sleep, I was questioning my age. Am I really 17? I remember on my 17th birthday I went to and R rated movie and showed the lady my ID (and she didn’t even look at the date - if I had only known that before), but still 17, is old. I’ve never been that old before.
BTW, I gave up on remembering my parents’ ages. The last birthday I remember for my mom was 50 and my dad was 58, so I assume my dad is 60 by now but I’m not entirely sure…
It’s pretty easy to remember how old my parents are–they are the same age, exactly 20 years older than me…once I remember how old I am it’s quite easy.
My problem is that not only do I occasionally forget my age, my birthday is in December, so I spend most of the year being one year younger than you’d expect just knowing the year I was born. I’m constantly having to remind myself “Neuro, you were born in the year 1977, but you’re still only 22”.
An infinite number of rednecks in an infinite number of pickup trucks shooting an infinite number of shotguns at an infinite number of road signs will eventually produce all the world’s great works of literature in Braille.
