. . . that I'm 56! Not 57!
(See post below.)
And all I can say is that apparently in my mind 56 is the new 57.
Which reminds me--I think I'll maybe write a column dealing with the good/bad things about your fifties in honor of Jimmy's b-day coming up this weekend. I'd be happy for you all to share your wisdom.
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Or is 57 the new 56? Hmmm. . . .
I was convinced that I turned 42 this year and that my brother born the day before my 7th birthday was 35. My brother, who has Down Syndrome, insisted that he was 34. When I finally stopped adding 7 to 35 and subtracted my birth year from 2012, I found out he was right!
Does this mean I should not become an accountant?
When you said 57, I thought What? So I am relieved. Because--and this is for real--I briefly thought, wait, am I 56? And while I don't have any problem being my age, no need to add years to the fat total that represents how very, very old I am. So let's not obsess, but on the other hand, let's be exact, shall we?
I always rehearse the next year's age, so that I am not so surprised when it arrives.
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