After names, the most fundamental identity we have is age. Any news article, wanted poster, or Bumble match lists that number directly next to our moniker. Every time the sun rises through the Astrological constellation we took our first breath under, we bump that number up a digit. The anticipation is exhilarating at first, but “I can’t wait till I turn sixteen” eventually evolves into “I’m twenty-nine again this year.” Ultimately, we cower from this curse by petulantly changing the units from ‘years-old’ to ‘years-young.’ Ponder the wisp of dissipating smoke as Mat and Veronique blow out the candle, and monotonously hum the annual dirge of Happy Birthday.



*Grumbles are specifically off-the-cuff, no research went into this grumble.



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