Today’s my 46th birthday but I’ve been telling others I was 46 all year. Turns out I was 45 all along.

This came to light a couple of weeks ago during a mini argument with my dear friend who is 10 months younger. I overheard her tell someone else she was 44. I butted in with a quick correction, “No, you’re 45.” She shot back with, “No, I’m 44. You’re 45.”

After some quick math on my phone (to be sure), I conceded.

So here I am 46 with a year’s worth of experience. I feel prepared- lucky even. In a way, I’m granting myself a 2020 do-over.

If all that wasn’t confusing enough, I feel 28 in my head. It’s not the mentality of a child, not a college student groping for the meaning of life, but not 46 either. Sometimes passing through my dining room on the way to the kitchen, I get a flash reminder of my responsibilities- the kids, the dogs, the house, the job…

Who thought it was okay to let me take care of all this stuff?

I know I’m not alone in this disconnect. I was a little kid at my Aunt Carol’s 40th birthday party. My grandmother was bouncing from person to person asking (part humor and part sincere wonder), “How do I have a 40-year-old!?” “How do I have a 40-year-old!?” “How do I have a 40-year-old!!!???”

I didn’t get it. The little 8-year-old sass in my head was, like, “Um because you’re an old lady. That’s how.”

Now, I totally get it.

Anyway, so here I am. Buckled in for 46 part deux.

I can’t wait. Really. Because all those responsibilities are blessings for which I am immensely grateful.

It’s going to be a great year. I can feel it.