I’ve never been one to talk about how old I am. Unless you know me well or you went to school with me, you probably have a good idea of how old I am, but you also probably don’t know for sure. Quite frankly, I’ve lied so much about my age throughout the years, that I often have to do the math to really know how old I am. True story.

I think I have an aversion to talking about my age because many years ago, I knew a gal who appeared to be much older than she really was. I worked with her, and I saw how people respected her and her decisions on a daily basis. She was a top-notch employee, worker, problem-solver, etc., however, when other employees found out she was a mere kid in here early 20s (compared to the rest of us), I saw how people treated her differently from that point forward. It was then and there I decided that age did matter to some people, and I would never be one of those folks who divulged my age, unless I had to.

That scenario happened in a different state more than 20 years ago, but it has haunted me for quite some time. While I learned never to judge a book by its proverbial cover — whether it’s a brand new cover or an old aging, tattered one — I know many others don’t subscribe to that thinking.