Ah, remember the days long gone when you would answer in quiet confidence your age whenever someone asked it of you? "I am eight and three quarters," I would reply after gathering enough my pluck about me to overcome my crippling shyness that often rendered me socially inept.

Of course, back then, I was just making that up. Oh yes! For, you see, dear reader, my brilliant skills in mathematical factors did not come to into full bloom till many a year later. The disbelief that I used to be so befuddled by the likes of '3/8' and '5/6' continues to reverberate incredulously into the farthest reaches of my brain. I am deviating.

Back then, each day was long, each month stretched the horizon, each year never ended. In my ever present yearning to leave behind pinthood, I would, with assured (though masked) tenacity, inform any who would ask it of me my age in its fullest possible glory, knowing full well that the older you are, the wiser you are and just all-round better you are.

I think it was at age twelve when I stopped adding the frills. Because, at age twelve, you realize that the constant jibes you receive from your frugal parent for having to pay for another 'adult' is just not worth growing older for. Oh, harsh reality!

So to you, reader, I bequeath you this task: The next time someone asks you your age, tell them with all the spunk in your heart, skip in your step and grin on your face, "I am twenty-three and one quarter years old!"... or whatever your age is... and watch them slowly comprehend that maybe, just maybe, they might be conversing with a crazy person.