A Wrinkle in Time

My flatmate Amanda hates people who lie about their age. I know this because the other day, she exclaimed, “Oh, I hate people who lie about their age!”

And then, as if that statement didn't quite convey the full extent of her displeasure, she added, “It shows such little self-growth!” She spent the rest of our lunch ranting about how shallow some people are.

Personally, I don’t know what the big deal is. Everyone I know lies about his or her age. I myself have been 28 for the longest time. And this year, thanks to the miraculous age-defying effects of SK-II, I’m turning 27.

My own mother has been 55 for years now.

“I don’t see why I need to tell people how old I am,” she once sniffed as she inspected an application form for a credit card and firmly ticked the 50-55 age box. “It’s all so intrusive. Shouldn’t my credit history be more important than my birth date?”

“You’d rather tell complete strangers how much money you have than to tell them your age?” I remember asking at the time.

“Oh darling, don’t be naïve!” my Mother said calmly. “I have no intention of answering any of these questions truthfully. I lied on my marriage certificate, you think I’m going to start telling the truth on a credit card application? Really, you young people!” she laughed and, for weeks after, entertained her mah-jong friends with the story.

And then the day I turned 26 - just a couple of years ago – I found myself filling up a contest application form. One of the boxes required me to tick a box for my age. Without even thinking about it, I ticked the 23-25 box.

“How is it that you’re only 24?” Saffy asked me the other day as she read a bio I’d written of myself for a magazine. “If you’re going to lie about your age, can you please be a little more realistic?”

This from a girl who tells every man that she’s ever dated that she’s still a virgin.