*I am getting older and beginning to feel the pressure to lie about my age. I am the only one applying this pressure, but I just can’t shake the idea that I need to shave off a few years when folks ask how old I am.
Deceiving others about my age is not a new thing for me because as a pre-teen, I wanted people to think I was older than I was and with enough lipstick and eyeliner, I pretty much pulled it off. I figure, faking being younger cannot be any more difficult than faking being younger. 

Throughout my adult years, I have stood proudly and proclaimed my age, encouraging all of my friends to do the same. I refused to conform to society’s age discrimination. Well, that was easy to do when everyone guessed me to be younger than I really was. Sadly, that is not happening anymore. 

Where I used to blend in with the young, “hip and happening” crowd, that same group now looks at me like I may be better suited for the “break your hip can happen” crowd.

And my cool fashion sense that I had, has this little black cloud that floats over it, constantly interrupting my thoughts with the nagging doubt, “Is this appropriate for a woman my age?”

Another oddity. I was always well versed on Hollywood gossip. I knew every crisis Brittany Spears and Jessica Simpson was going through. It made me look cool and kept me in the conversation with the younger crowd. Now it makes me look like some weird stalker.

The worst part is, young people freak out when I tell them the age of my children. When they find out I have kids older than they are, they suddenly treat me like I need a rocking chair and an afghan thrown over my assumed, varicose-ridden legs. Maybe I should start introducing my children to people as “just relatives” then they can’t do the math and figure out how old I really am.

This type of deceit in deeply embedded in my DNA, as no woman in my family has ever honestly told their age. As a matter of fact, I once saw my aunt throw a full bowl of potato salad towards my uncles’ head when he announced that it was her 50th birthday, after she had told everyone she was only 47!

And my mother, well she was the queen of age-deceit. Even when the ladies at her senior living complex caught her with completely gray roots, she refused to give up the charade that she was still in her prime, standing toe to toe with them and informing them her hair was jet black with not one gray in it.

She then weaved a tale of lies that was so impressive. She told them the roots they were seeing was actually a bleaching experiment her hairdresser was trying that went terribly wrong. She explained how she was going back to have it corrected the next day. No one believed her but since those ladies also refused to admit their age, out of respect for the lie, they said nothing. 

They say age is a state of mind, so am I technically lying if I say I am 28, because my mind says I can be? Or do I have to figure in the creaking that my knees make when I stand up, and the groan I let out when I sit back down? 

I have to wisely choose my new age. I can’t just pick any age and claim it as my own, but I am going to start really young and work my way up. 

I am putting on my mini skirt, Hannah Montana t-shirt, flip flops and I am going to chew a big wad of gum, then head to the mall. I have no doubt I will be successful in convincing others that I am really young. 
I do feel bad for my husband of 30 years, though. I know that if he is walking with me, people are going to think he is my father, or maybe even my sugar daddy. I guess he has no choice but to start lying, too.

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Stacey Mollus is a humor columnist who believes laughter is the best form of exercise and happy people are the best looking people. She loves her family, chocolate, clothes that are stretchy and things that sparkle. You can contact her at queenofchocolates@live.com or follow her on Facebook at “Queen of Chocolates”.