32 is the new 27

So, back in our early twenties, whenever Andi or I would see a cute, older boy, we'd ask one another, "How old do you think he is?"

(Which of course is girl-speak for, "Is he too old for me?")

To which the other would respectfully take a look, do a few small calculations in her head and then reply, "...27," with complete and unfounded confidence.

(Translated this means, "Older than us, but not too old. Definitely within the realm of possibility.")

However, seeing as I (the junior of the pair) just recently celebrated my 27th birthday, you can see the dilemma we are in: twenty-seven no longer represents a slightly older and mysterious, yet potentially attainable young man; it equals a peer. Thus we were forced to adjust the estimated age of our eye candy to 32.

So tonight when Andi asked me how old I thought Logan (the Irish pub bar tender) was, I immediately answered, "32." She screnched up her face, cocked her head to the side and turned that number over in her mind before saying, "Nah, I think he's 27." We had a good chuckle about our little joke and began gathering our things to leave. Just before we left, on an impulse, I waved Logan down and asked him how old he was. His reply?

27.

Oh, the irony.