A friend sent me a list of funny stuff that ended with, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” This is one of those annoying, esoteric questions that make me think too hard while driving on the freeway. Am I supposed to consider my surroundings like the mortgage and the kids or is this a question posed in a vacuum? Wouldn’t I still actually be the same age no matter what, just possibly feel younger or older? Incidentally, Tenzin’s response to this is, “Can’t you just answer the god damned question?”
So by my calculations, I figure I’m about 35. I’ve managed to add four different ages and then average them (mainly just to annoy Tenzin).
5: Approximately how old I’m feeling when missing my mom. Even Elfie is dealing with this in a more mature, rational, graceful manner. I’m attempting to emulate her behavior. Minus the accidental pants wetting (not that I have much room to talk — I have had two kids, after all).
12: I’ve been seeing a neuromuscular dentist for my chronic pain problem, and he’s got me wearing this ridiculous orthotic on my lower teeth that makes eating, talking, and all-around functioning a complete nightmare. In addition to making the pain worse (I’ve been told I need to tough it out for a while), I basically feel like a pre-teen, lisping through her new braces. If I have to live like this for too long — avoiding conversations with peers, feeling moody all the time, and being unable to eat corn on the cob — I’m going to bust into my parents’ liquor cabinet and get wasted one of these nights, consequences be damned.
25: For some odd reason, I feel compelled to talk to my children like they’re adults. And they are definitely not adults. This is something I would have thought to be logical at 25 (nothing against those of you who are currently 25 — I was apparently an idiot). Explaining to the children why and how quickly they irritate me is of no importance to them (answers — because they ask for drinks and snacks at the precise moment it’s time to leave the house; approximately 25 seconds). Telling them how much work I do around the house is a useless argument for getting them to help clean up (because fairies and gnomes actually do it all). Saying I’m tired is not a reasonable explanation as to why I can’t build a 500 piece Lego truck or watch 11 Barbies dance to the same High School Musical song 11 times. Yet I continue to talk. Incessantly. And the reason I’m positive that “my life” isn’t even on their radar is because the other day, my friend and I were trying to remember if our moms went to the public pool with us when we were 10. I’m guessing, yes, since we were 10. But neither of us had any recollection of them being there! So, basically, I’m a pseudo-ghost.
98: This is about how tired I feel most of the time. I chose 98 because Tenzin’s grandmother is 97. She still gets around pretty well, has her own teeth, and can therefore eat corn on the cob. So I’m thinking, I must be at least a year older than she is.
Do the math and you get 35. Not bad — 5 years off the real thing. I’m feeling younger already. Now if only I could eat some friggin’ corn on the cob.
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.