number

Yesterday G. asked, "Rachel, how old are you?"

I said, "Why are all the men asking me that? Don't you guys know better?"

He said, "Oh, well, I am sure I am the oldest one."

I raised an eyebrow. (Actually, I didn't because I can't - which sucks.)

I said, "How old are you?"

"29."

I'm getting hung up on my number again.

I have to call it my number because it is as useless a measure as the numbers on the weighing scale. It is a number. That is all.

I feel healthier, more fit, more vibrant, more beautiful than I ever did at age 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, or 29. Last year I felt pretty hot. Last year I was 30. Now I am 31.

But I've grossed myself out buying into this ridiculous mass consciousness belief that on September 20, 2008 my stock price plummeted. What an insult to me and every other hot mama on this planet. There is nothing grosser (well, actually, sure there is) than discovering you have fallen victim to a doctrine that goes against all of your feminist might.

Believing - on any level - that I have lost shine because of my number is just plain stupid. Now I just have to figure out how to get over myself.