I once thought I'd fallen in love with an adorable British Israeli lawyer who started chatting with me while we waited at a crosswalk in Manhattan. I felt an immediate spark, and after we exchanged numbers, we planned our first date without ever bringing up our ages. A week later, somewhere between one and four glasses of wine, he told me I looked “quite young” and asked how old I was.
“I’m 25,” I said, trying to seem proud of the number even though I’d just celebrated this birthday with a bit of dread about growing up. He nodded in surprise and didn’t offer his age until I asked for it. “You’ll never guess,” he said, which is when I tried to examine his face for wrinkles and his hair for salt-and-pepper grays—but there weren’t any.