Tired of my age

I’m tired of peo­ple ask­ing my age. I rec­og­nize that I’m a kid. People hear 22 they think I should be doing keg­stands between exams. Professionally, this is becom­ing an issue, but only when peo­ple ask. I’ve been blessed with a thick beard so the ques­tion rarely comes up. But the most annoy­ing iter­a­tion of this con­fu­sion, the absolute worst, is when women ask. Should I start lying? I tend to hang out with 30somethings, which is fine, and they like hang­ing out with me, until the issue of years comes up. They’ll ask my age or they’ll ref­er­ence things I know noth­ing of, base­ball play­ers from “when we were kids” only “when we were kids” hap­pens to be 10 years apart. Ah well, I guess every­one thinks they were born 10 or 20 years late. Anyhow, who cares about those peo­ple any­way. Next time they ask me my age I’ll just have to say I’ve got a bet­ter shot of see­ing 2060 than you, babe.

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Reading:

Philip Roth

The Ghost Writer