I Really Am a Tard

How I started Friday's post the other day, supposing that I "must be mentally retarded" turns out to be truer than I had really meant it at the time.

Here's the deal, thanks to a quickwitted reader pointing it out to me... I am not forty-eight after all. Which might explain why I seemed so perplexed the other day about how that had not occurred to me yet, because literally it has not occurred to me yet.

God only knows how mathematically-astute Erika remembered from whatever or whenever long ago it was that this trivia might have come up, but she's right; I was born November 1962, just now over forty-seven years ago. I really have nothing to say for myself about that, particularly since I spent most of my professional career diddling and dawdling with numbers. It's embarrassing.

I also said in the same post that "I'm not that retarded as everyone celebrating 2010 as the start of a new decade still nearly a year away." I stand corrected about not being so stupid after all. I apparently would have been well-suited for celebrating the new decade alongside those other dorks.

Anyway, I suppose the good news is the bucket I'll eventually be kicking is actually farther away than I was imagining the other day. The bad news is I have just that much longer then to try living down being such a moron. I really am a tard.