The other day at work we were discussing ages. Each other’s age, relative to each other, along with when our birthdays come up. All precipitated by the fact that one co-worker’s odometer rolls over on Friday.
“How old are you going to be,” one person asked.
“…,” was the birthday boy’s quick reply. “Twenty-seven.”
“You took an awfully long time to think about that!”
Somehow from here we got onto the fact that it always takes me a little while to work out my age. There was a time when I just knew it, bang, “I’m [howevermuch] old.” But that time has passed, and I now have to do the math. The problem is that, when asked, my first instinct is always to answer 28. But I’m not 28, nor have I been for some many years now.
And it occurred to me: I turned 28 in 1999. The obvious conclusion is that the part of my brain that just remembers how old I am suffered a Y2K glitch for which an update was never released. Or at least applied. And now I’m stuck doing some complicated subtraction (it spans millenia, people!) in my head whenever the question comes up.
Silly four-digit years, anyway.
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