About 5 years ago, I spent the summer working in Muskoka as a cottage cleaner and personal chef for several families. During the day I would boat from cottage to cottage to be a cleaner (you know, washrooms, kitchens, laundry) or I would grocery shop for families and then go to their cottages to prepare their meals for the week. Pretty much it was the best job of all time!
At the time we were much younger, and therefore partying was MEGA important. We’d go to cottage parties, pig roasts, house parties, concerts, and the bar on a regular basis. Every time I met someone new and they asked me my age I’d always tell them – matter-of-factly – that I was 22.
Here’s the thing:
At the end of the summer, myself and a girlfriend of mine (Erin) went out to lunch. We were enjoying a nice bottle of white wine, when I looked up at her and announced:
“I’m not 22. Oh my goodness, I’ve been telling people all summer that I’m 22. I’m 23”
Erin proceeded to shake her head and laugh at me hysterically. I then recounted in my head every time I told people that I was 22. What’s that all about? Who does that? I was so embarrassed. Actually, I’m still embarrassed. I mean really, it’s not like I was old enough to forget my age AND it’s not like I was old enough to want to forget my age. I just happened to forget that I had my 23rd birthday already. Idiot.