I am 43 1/2. I still count the half. Except when I don't. Like, for example, the two times this week when someone asked me how old I was and, both times, I said, "I'm forty-uhhhhhh-three. Forty-three." But in those cases, that hesitation was really me just trying not to count the half out loud.
When I was 32 1/2, I was on a flower delivery with eleven-year-old Son-Two along for the ride. We came to a traffic checkpoint where the state troopers were checking for seatbelts, valid registrations and inspections,etc. As we rolled up to the checkpoint, the state trooper checked our stickers and our seatbelts and started to wave us on, but then he said, "Hold on. How old are you? You don't even look old enough to have a license."
I said, "I'm 32 and a half." Trust me when I say that adding the half in that moment did nothing to convince the officer of my maturity.
He did not merely laugh, he guffawed. He said, "Don't you know that once you turn ten, you're supposed to stop counting the half?"
Perhaps I am more mature than I give myself credit for--or at least I was in that moment--because I did manage to stifle the urge to stick my tongue out at him as I drove away.
Nice and Warm
21 hours ago