I’m considering putting my age up by a decade. I know. Most people who lie about their age put theirs down but I’m imagining that could lead to unfavourable comparisons such as: “She says she’s HOW old? That’s a laugh. She was in the same class as my sister and they were definitely the same age back then.”
Decreasing my age does appeal in one way because I’ve never been good with figures but this technique is a little passé now and in our fast-paced world, we’ve got to keep on top of things.
Yep, 50 is the new 60 for me. So instead of: “Gosh, hasn’t she aged?” it’ll be: “Wow! She’s 60! She looks fantastic – how does she do it?!”
I ran my plan past the husband to see what he thought. I wouldn’t want to bump my age up and then be passed over for a younger model. I broached the subject when he was distracted by his favourite event of all time – Top Gear – and he didn’t seem phased one bit.
This plan would require me to live a double life. In reality, the new, older me can only be revealed to recently-acquired friends and acquaintances, basically those lucky enough to not already know me.
It would be hard to fool my nearest and dearest (except for the husband, possibly), that I’ve jumped a decade faster than you can say “nip and tuck.” They’d dismiss me as an idiot, as they usually do, and assume my tactic was merely a ruse to extract more expensive gifts come birthday time. Oh how shallow!
I could have fun with this at yoga classes, I’m thinking. Maybe I could be the poster girl at Yoga 4 You. I can hear it now: “She’s 60! Amazing! And she can still tie herself up in knots!”
Too obsessed with my age, you’re saying? Ridiculous? You’re absolutely right, but at least I’ve improved over a decade. Turning 40 was a shock and for one reason and another I didn’t celebrate this spooky milestone until I was 42.
I couldn’t think of a large and expensive inducement (or small and expensive, I wasn’t fussy), that would give me an adequate kick for attaining this symbolic achievement that I didn’t even want. What’s the use of attaining a milestone if you can’t mark it in some materialistic way, I asked my miserable self.
Anyway, the more pedantic at my party (the party poopers, basically), let me know that while this bash was two years late, I hadn’t adjusted my age.
These same people will not be coming to my 60th because I think true friends are those that don’t count whether it be anything at all – birthdays, bottles, bad moods, cream buns or bank balances.
But a flaw appeared in my plan. My head was spinning with numbers and for a failed mathematician this was painful. So now I’m thinking of suing my skin care company.
I tallied up how much I’ve spent with one particular American multi-national over the past 30 years and the figure wouldn’t fit in this column, even if I removed all the words. So how come I have all these wrinkles?
I’m going to a school reunion soon, which is a challenging place for a budding serial age-liar such as myself and skipping classes will be pretty much impossible.
