Though my internal age hovers comfortably around 65*, I’m afraid that I’m technically just 30. I use the word “just” because the Powers That Be running the world are generally Baby Boomers who refuse to get out of the way, and they don’t seem comfortable with the fact that people born in the 1980s now have kids entering high school.
But I don’t judge, because for every 99 times I’m told I’m a mere kid in the grand scheme of things comes one time that I am, in fact, an old fogey. Today, the Junk Food Guy tipped me off to that 1 time: the “How Many Pro Athletes Are Younger Than You?” Tool. Here’s my distribution:
(We can pretend that age alone is what’s keeping me from being a professional athlete.)
For once, statistics that I can get on board with. In defense of the kids, I recently helped out with a Model UN function at Cabinet-Department-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named and those kids were sharp as a whip. Informed on the issues, communicative, and (most importantly) dressed in tiny navy blue blazers. I wasn’t nearly as put together at that age, and I turned out pretty okay.
In fact, I’m turning back the hands on my Humanity’s Doom Countdown Clock two seconds.
* I watch NCIS religiously, eat dinner at 5, and attend multiple fine arts performances each year. I’m not someone you take home to mom; I’m someone you take home to grandma.