Today’s the day! The anniversary of my birth. The years between 26 and 27 have been rough. You read that right, years. Let me explain.
Let’s go back to a sunny summer day 2015, I was being a kind person and doing a favor. I had in my hand two winning yellow lottery tickets, I walked into the small shop to turn them in and collect the money. The man behind the counter looked at the tickets, looked at me, and back at the tickets. “I’m going to need to see some ID”. To clarify, in Sweden as in the US, the age at which you may purchase lottery tickets is 18. I handed over my identification, the man read it, and laughed to himself “You should take it as a complement!” A little hard to do with his laughter still ringing in my ears as I left.
A recap: if that guy thought I was under 18 that means he thought, at best, I was 17 years old.
Flash forward to this spring. At work I was outdoors enjoying the fact that the sun had returned to Sweden, when the conversation topic of age came up. A colleague asked me my age, and as I always love getting this question and answering it with another I replied: “How old do you think I am?” She paused “Uhm…..37?”.
You read that right, THIRTY SEVEN. Upon finding out my actual age she exclaimed “Take it as a compliment, you seem so experienced!”
What I’ve learned: it is a complement to be 17 and a complement to be 37. 27 though? No one knows. And this, my friends, is why my past year has, evidently, been a rough one. Aging 20 years is quite the feat, though not one I want to repeat, so this next year I’m going to take it easy. Super easy. As in I’m not going to do anything besides relax.
With a new baby, a new university degree underway and work to top it off I’m sure that’s feasible.