Forgetting My Age

I never really was a forgetful person, at least when it came to my age. "How old are you?" they'd ask. "I am x years old," I'd say. It was instant, preprogrammed, and of course, auto-incrementing. I wouldn't consciously need to know my age. I'd just remember.

Sometime in the middle of 2005 this feature broke.

It all started when I was filling out a patient information form, trying to see a doctor in Taiwan for my really, really, nasty cough. The first fields were easy. Then, age. Subsconsciously, I fill it out: 20. "What?" says Jenn, incredulously. "You're not 20." I quickly scratch out the zero and replace it with another two. It has begun.

Now, whenever someone asks me my age, there's a slight pause. A slight deliberation. Am I 22, or am I 23? For some odd reason, both seem valid and possibly correct. Perhaps it's the exposure to the age of oh-so-many people at age 23. Or perhaps that's an age that means something, that is important, or otherwise significant? Regardless of reason, there's always that pause -- followed by a feverent subtraction of 1983? from 2005 -- and a reassuring answer.

"Oh. I'm 22."

Atleast until 2006.