If I'm 35, You're Pushing 50, Jerk.

"How old are you?"

Here we go.

The age question comes up every time I go out. Somehow the conversation is always steered toward the topic of age and it never fails to leave me feeling both ancient and indignant, but for whatever stupid masochistic reason, I walk right into the trap and always find myself answering with another question:

"How old do you think I am?"

A long time ago I was told for the very first of many times that my maturity makes me seem ten years older. Back then, I accepted it as a compliment. After all, I was underage then and it meant that my odds were that much better of passing under bartenders' radars. Today, it's a different story. Especially because I know my actual level of maturity is easily trumped by 15-year-old boys whose comical reserve, mind you, contains only farting-on-command maneuvers and "that's what she said" jokes.

Giving away my age isn't necessarily a problem with me. The only time I'm not comfortable doing so is when I'm in the city. Manhattan, in particular, is teaming with single, childless 20 and 30-somethings who like to fake-choke on their martinis and clutch their hearts when they find out I'm a 26-year-old married mother of one.

"But you're a baaaaby!" they exclaim. Then...

"Wait, you're from the Midwest, aren't you?"

When I confirm this, they assume a smug expression that immediately indicates their underlying feelings of superiority. I've instantly become to them a typical country bumpkin who did what other country bumpkins do: marry early, birth a few younguns, raise goats...but I had clearly made a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a city that's far too sophisticated for my britches.

"God, it must be next to impossible to raise a kid here. I couldn't even imagine," they say, banishing the horrid thought with a dismissive wave of the hand, "You must not have ANY time for fun at all."

I swallow back a gag, smile, and quietly regale them with a few of the finer points I've experienced of motherhood and marriage, hoping the happiness in my voice and the serenity in my face will make them want to run home and hang themselves with their office-dress-code-safe Ralph Lauren neckties, or at least weep into their empty Coach purses and wonder why they still can't snag a man who won't cheat on them with every malnourished 21 year old model-wannabe who struts past.*

Then, there are the people who take it upon themselves to follow up the "How old are you?" question with,

"Wait. Don't tell me. I'm REALLY good at guessing."

They suck at guessing. People suck harder at guessing my age than they do when trying to get to the chocolately fucking center of a Tootsie Pop.

"But, no, I'd rather you didn--"

"Thirtyyyyyyy.....four!" they say with narrowed eyes, naively smiling like happy idiots into my stormy expression.

When I don't respond...

"Thirty-three? Wait. Thirty-five?"

Keep digging that hole...

"No, I've got it, Thirty-two. You're thirty-two, aren't you?"

Asshats thinking they're being generous = far from cute.

Try six years younger, dick.

Fed up with having my age constantly over-estimated, my stock response is now:

"Wrong. I am 51 years old, sweetie, so is Madonna, and we're both old enough to be your mother."

The responses I get tend to vary. From dropped jaws, to applause, I've seen it all.

Last night, the response was: "Wow. Um, are you joking? I can't really tell."

To which I should have replied, "I'm 26 years old and you're officially an overgrown fucktard."

Instead, because I'm a lady with a fucking unlimited supply of class, I said simply, "I'm 26, but it's okay, people in their late 40's, like you, usually start losing their grasp on complicated things like age..."

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*I should clarify that I see and understand the benefits of the single life and waiting to settle down, waiting until later to have kids. No one should box themselves into any pre-packaged idea of happiness. The Happiness Train just happened to roll into town early for me in the form of Andrew and, because of my innate gangstatude, I chose to board before the train left the station. I don't look back because I don't need to. It was the right move.