I used to have this thing…….with lying……..about my age. I know this problem usually comes around the time you hit 30, but for me, it started when I was 17.

First, it was a matter of wanting to be 18 –even though I’m still not too sure what the thrill of that age is, besides buying lottery tickets…and well, you know what else {I’ve never purchased either thankyouverymuch}. When I entered university, I was the youngest person in my class. My parents had pushed me into kindergarden right at the cut-off, so while everyone else was about to celebrate their 19th birthday freshman year, I was still waiting to hit the big 1-8. I didn’t care that much…until one day something happened, triggering a series of lies I would spew for the next five years.

{blowing bubbles like an old-timer}

I was interning for a political PR firm in Sac at the time. It was a great gig, and taught me a LOT about politics {like how I never want to get into them}. I guess I “proved” myself at the company, because by the second month, I took over one of the junior account executive’s tasks of writing press releases. I LOVED it. I wrote about everything from plastic bag bans to cannabis codes. After work, the executives would always invite me to downtown Sac for drinks. After a while, “no” just wasn’t cutting it anymore and they started probing why I never wanted to come.

Finally….it came out. I told them I was 18.

After that, I never got to write a press release for the company again.

After such a particularly scarring incident, the lying just got worse. Sooo bad that my friends in university didn’t even bother to bat an eyelash when I introduced myself as 22 at the bars {news flash: I didn’t turn 22 until after college}. They were so used to it. I was  always wanting to earn the respect that our society tags with age; always wanting older co-workers to confide in me; and employers to let me do the tasks I knew I was capable of doing…..but could only obtain them in they didn’t know my birthdate.

{Graduation: a tried-and-true method to trick youngins into thinking they’re adults}

Anyways, that all changed when I came down here. because here, nobody CARES.

When I’d meet other travelers, they’d much rather talk about where I’ve gone, what I’ve seen, and what I’ve done, rather than talk about how many candles I blew out last September 5th. My best friends here happen to be all at least five years older than me, and you know what? I love and get along with them as much as I do my “age-appropriate” besties back home.

I’ve stopped letting a time stamp define who I am, who I should form relationships with, and how those relationship should be. If I hadn’t dropped that “stigma,” I wouldn’t have befriended and fallen in love with some of the amazing people I have.

{the tightest crew Mother Nature could’ve thrown together…ranging from early 20s to mid 40s}

And trust me, I am not exactly what Señor Webster defines as “mature.” I’d go so far as to say, I actually lack a lot of it. I mean, I still can’t even open a bottle of wine on my own, for crizety. And I often abbreve words that should nevs be abbreviated. Yes…….there’s still a lot of growing that needs to be done. However, now that we’re all out of educational institutions –categorizing us by age instead of intelligence, birth date instead of brain cells– we’re free to play in life’s playground with anyone we please…without yard duties warning us to stay away from the big kids.

So, I encourage you to push aside any prejudices you may have. Go shopping with the 70-year-old with the killer purse but who’s wrinkles have detered you before…..who cares about a little crumple?! Date the dude who’s 5-years-older…the only reason your friends are judging is because they KNOW his age {everyone else is wishing they were the one with him!}. And last but never ever ever least….if the 18-year-old can write, GIVE THE DANG CHILD A PEN AND LET HER!

{ohhh Betty, Betty, Betty, you’re my favorite}

Because age is just an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. Trust me….I’ve been at it for 25 years {……or have I?} xox besos my confused genie

{Wanderita note: Liar’s dice is actually a game that originated in South America. so not only am i referencing my deceptive ways but i’m also making an allusion to the fact that I’m traveli….you know what?….i think you get it..}