I lied today. About my age.
As I waited to get a haircut, the other men bragged about how old they were. The oldest was 87, and the youngest, but me, was 81.
I told them I was 71. Which I am … almost. They complemented me on looking younger. I felt bad.
What possessed me to do that? Felt like a child saying he was almost seven.
Not a bad feeling–not the fib–the childishness.
As a Matter of Fancy 