Yesterday I took a quiz online (another confession – a minor addiction) that boastfully asked, “Can we guess your age by your general knowledge?”

At the end of the quiz, about twenty questions (I’m too traumatized to remember the exact number now) I was told: “You are a loving and confident 63 years old!”

Now, (cough, cough) I’m not even close to 63. I happen to be 5o… something. So, the question I am left asking myself is: How am I supposed to feel about this? Is it my fault that trivia (another minor addiction) is stored up in my brain pushing out important appointments and birthdays?

I asked my all knowing female half of my boss team and she said I should look at the fact that I’m considered smarter than my years. Okay, I can reluctantly accept that. And if you look at the description of “me”, I’m a loving person – very true. Confident? I’m still working on that. But we come back to that dreadful number.

That number is two years away from collecting Social Security – or my steadfast thinking of it. It’s time when the joints are going to get ‘fussier’ than they are now. In fact, that hip still isn’t happy with all the dancing I put it through in October. What’s so great about being 63? And you don’t even want to get me started on the cost of health insurance at THIS age, let alone THAT one!

I had almost forgotten all about it on the way home because I immersed myself in my audiobook (yeah, @Sebastian York). Until I got home last night and mentioned it to my husband.

To those of you who haven’t met him or know our situation, he is “the older man”. So when he suggested maybe he take the quiz, my heart raced and my pulse quickened for all the non-romantic reasons on Valentine’s Day – the last thing I need is for him to get the same answers (I was 100% correct, so I know he would be, too).

I don’t need a seventy-something crowing around the house that he’s a loving and confident 63 years old!

I think the dog may take umbrage with that. She knows exactly how old he is, too.

She’d have to stand in line.