Spent a nice chunk of my afternoon talking to a dear friend who I miss so much. (oh the magic of skype!) We somehow got on the topic of my age. That, well, er, um… That I’ll be turning 32 in a few months. Granted, she will be turning 32 a few weeks after that, but she didn’t wanna hear it.

After much cajoling (isn’t that an old man word? oops) she gave in, and admitted to a few factors that support my already obvious theory that we’re getting old.

Here’s what she said, in her own confessional words, “I know I’m getting old when:”

“…I don’t know who Justin Bieber is.”

“…My college graduation photos show clothing and hair that is painfully out of style.”

Ok Ok. Now I’m going to add my own:

I know I’m getting old when my husband reads this blog post over my shoulder and asks, “Who is Justin Beiber?” and I don’t really know the answer to that question. And if Holly is old because she doesn’t know the answer, and I’m two weeks older than Holly and I don’t know the answer to that question, and if I’m 4 months older than Drew and he’s asking that question, then the only logical conclusion is that I’m old.

[inhale]

Ok. Your turn!