I'm forty-seven (I think)

a story about birthdays, aging, and saying yes

Whenever I asked my Bubbie her age, she’d tell me she didn’t know how old she was because her birth certificate had been destroyed in a fire. Naturally, I smelled bullshit.

“You just keep count year after year,” I told Bubbie. “Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six…”

I don’t think she appreciated her precocious grandson demonstrating how counting works, but Bubbie stuck her guns. The hall of records in Winnipeg, Canada burned down, she insisted.

Later, on a trip to Winnipeg, I fact-checked Bubbie’s claims. Yes, several relatives confirmed, there had been a fire at the hall of records when Bubbie was a kid. And yes, that fire had destroyed her birth certificate. But when I asked her age, things got fuzzy. People younger than Bubbie didn’t know how old she was. Like me, the only information they had to go on came from Bubbie, and she wasn’t talking. People older than Bubbie agreed that she was the youngest one in a family of eight children, but concrete numbers were difficult to come by.

“They’re being polite,” my father told me. “It’s rude to ask a lady her age.”

“So you don’t know either, do you, Dad?”

My father shook his head and called me a smart ass. That was fair. I was being a smart ass, but in my book that’s better than being a dumb ass.

Which brings me to my birthday. I turned forty-seven last week. At least, I think I turned forty-seven. For the first time in my life, that whole counting thing that I was so eager to demo as a kid got away from me.

For the previous eleven months, I thought I was forty-seven. Whenever someone asked, I’d say, “I’m forty-seven.” But I even went out of my way to volunteer this information. I’d say stuff like:

• As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’m old enough to remember what we did before the internet, but unfortunately, I’m too young to unplug and live that analogue life.

• As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’m old enough to be the father of this year’s Heisman Trophy winner.

• As a forty-seven-year-old man, I’ve learned that only three thing matter in life. The problem is, I can only remember two of them.

But every time I ran my mouth about being forty-seven, I was lying. I discovered my lie less than a month before my birthday. My sister, Allison, was the one who clued me in to my deceit. I called Allison the day after her birthday. She explained that she didn’t pick up when I called on her birthday because she was hungover.

“Forty-five is treating me rough,” she said. “I went too hard, and now I’m paying the price.”

I didn’t think anything of her comment while we were on the phone. But later, while I was on a walk, Allison’s words shook something loose in my head, like when the detective in a mystery realizes that the clues were there all along.

If Allison just turned forty-five, and we were born twenty-three months apart, how can I turn forty-eight this year? The question felt like one of those word problems that gave me nightmares when I was in school. In my mind, Allison and I were both on different trains, traveling at different speeds, trying desperately to figure out when we’d collide—and show our work—before the teacher said, “pencils down.”

Either Allison is wrong, or I’m wrong, I told myself. I opened the calculator app on my phone to find out. I did the math on Allison’s age first, subtracting 1979 from 2024. The answer was forty-five.

Oh shit.

I did the math on my age just to be safe. I subtracted 1977 from 2024. The answer was forty-seven, which meant that at the time I made the calculation, I was forty-six-years-old. I had been lying about my age for the past year.

When I explained the situation to Christina she suggested that I ask my doctor for a neurological exam.

“Just to be on the safe side, babe. You are getting older.”

“That’s not true,” I insisted. “I’m getting younger. When I left for my walk, I was forty-seven. Now, I’m back, and I’m forty-six, baby!”

Christina rolled her eyes.

“I’m not kidding. What if I’m the real life Benjamin Buttons?”

“If you’re the real life Benjamin Buttons, then our relationship is going to get very problematic in the years ahead.”

After consulting WebMD, I ruled out the Benjamin Buttons scenario. Turns out, there are no documented cases of people aging in reverse. But there is a documented case of someone forgetting their age, and that case is part of my family history. Naturally, I phoned Allison to warn her.

“Honestly, I think Bubbie was lying,” Allison said. “You, on the other hand, just fucked up.”

“You mean I’m losing my marbles?”

“No, you’re still pretty with it, for someone turning forty-seven.”

“But I got my age wrong for an entire year. I put the wrong age on medical documents for fuck’s sake. When I had jury duty, I told them I was forty-seven. I was under oath!”

“Mistakes were made, Michael.”

I appreciated Allison’s use of the passive voice.

“But look on the bright side,” she continued. “You just got an extra year!”

“An extra year!? That’s like a leap birthday, or something.”

“It’s something,” Allison agreed. “You need to take advantage of this. This is your year of yes.”

“Year of yes?”

“Yes! You say yes to everything.”

“I dunno.”

“No, you’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to say yes!”

“So you’re saying that if someone asks me if I’m a god, I say yes?”

“Yes.”

“And if a stranger asks for a kidney?”

“Yes.”

“And then another stranger asks for the other kidney?”

“Yeah-well, OK, there are limits. But this is a gift from the universe. Most people only get one trip around the sun for each year, but you’re doing forty-seven twice. Make it count. What do you say?”

“Yes?”

“Work on it. Try saying it with confidence.”

Which is what I’m doing. As of this writing, I’ve been forty-seven for one year and seven days. I’ve said yes to a foot massage, Korean barbecue, and an invitation to watch my friend Nick coach his son’s soccer team. With any luck, that soccer invite will lead to opportunities to say yes to an orange slice and a Capri-Sun.

But somehow I think Allison has bigger things in mind. What opportunities will come my way in second-47th trip around the sun? I don’t know yes. But I’m excited to find out.

Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. Nobody likes a smart ass, and nobody wants to be a dumb ass, so can we take a moment to appreciate the asses of average intelligence?

2. Have you ever forgotten your age? Be honest.

3. Have you ever made a commitment to say yes to whatever comes your way? Tell your story!

4. How did you celebrate your last birthday? Dish!

5. I share a birthday with Bernie “Medicare for All” Sanders, Lachlan “My Dad Promised to Leave Me News Corp. in His Irrevocable Trust, But Now the Fucker is Trying to Take it Back” Murdoch, and Ron “Pigpen” McKernan of The Grateful Dead. Who do you share a birthday with?

You ask, I answer (maybe)

After last week’s bagel story, I’m eager for another assignment. I’ve got some ideas, but in the spirit of this week’s post, I’m putting you in the driver’s seat.

Pitch me a Situation Normal adventure! Think of something silly, or weird, or shockingly normal you want me to write about. Be creative. Think outside the box. Dream big. Then email me your idea at michaelestrin@substack.com.