My birthday is Thursday. The custom at our school is to post birthdays on bulletin boards around campus. In theory, this is a lovely practice, but I find it excruciating. I wouldn’t care if people just stopped at wishing me a happy birthday, but the inevitable follow-up from middle school students is to ask how old I am. My used to tell them the truth, which would cause them to widen their eyes and say things like, “were you born before or after slavery?” or “you’re older than my grandma.” Being coy and dodging the answer is a dead giveaway that you’re a card-carrying member of AARP.

I can’t believe that I, who pride myself on being open, would determine that the best option is to lie, but hey, it is, and that’s what I intend to do. My plan is to go for a number that’s borderline plausible. Maybe someday I’ll figure out why something that is both natural and inevitable should feel so embarrassing, but until then, it’s not like I’m asking to stay young forever. I would just like to try to get a little more mileage out of 47.