Tripping over birthdays

I was approaching a birthday a couple of years ago, and I was driving around with my nephews.

They asked me, “How old are you?” Simple question, I thought.

I blurted out my first response and then realized it was wrong. I pondered another number but then realized that wasn’t correct either.

“You don’t know how old you are?” Lots of chuckles and laughter from the cheap seats.

Embarrassed but proud, I finally figured out which number was my real age, and passed it along.
”Wow! You didn’t know your age?”

So then I had to explain that birthdays become less of a milestone the older you become. I still like to reach them (as the alternative is worse), but no one asks me how old I am anymore to get on the ride at the fair or admit me into the movie or bar. I still remember when my birthday is, but I’m getting a little fuzzy on the number.

I don’t get asked for my driver’s license to order a drink.
I can vote whenever there is an election.
I don’t have to have an adult in the passenger seat when I drive.
I can walk into any movie without a parental figure in tow.

In short, I have arrived.