So yesterday, the same day I got mistaken for a 14-year-old, I had a class that was working on a handout. One of the sheets in the handout asked the students to imagine what they would be doing at age 30.
“I’ll be in a retirement home,” one girl snarked.
“Hey, watch it,” I said jokingly, but apparently not jokingly enough. She looked vaguely horrified.
“Relax, I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m 30.”
You know, -ish.
Man, that’s rough. I realize that to a 12-or-13-year-old, 30 is ancient, but ouch!
I’ll be 36 in August. I get proofed more often than not, which amuses my family and friends to no end. But I love to tell the young’uns where I work (18 and over, LOL) that I’m old.
This is what freaks me out: it’s quite possible that I will live for another 36 years.
Wait, how old *are* you, then?
I’ll be 33 in August.