I walked into Hollister last week and asked the girl for a “Gift Certificate.” She appeared bewildered for a moment or two and finally stammered out, “Do you mean a Gift Card?” Yes. I am forty. We used to call them Gift “Certificates.” I will probably always refer to them (at least in my mind) as Gift Certificates. I’m old.

Recently, I was minding my own business looking at some books in the local library and a loud toot slipped out unbeknownst to me. I was as shocked as the guy sitting at the table next to me. Did you catch that I was in the LI-BRARY? I apparently have no control over tooting loudly in public and wildly inappropriate places. I am old.

The other night I was out to eat with my BFF at a wonderful Mexican place in town. Before your meal they serve you a basket of tortilla chips and three delicioso salsas. I dipped a few chips and then – I SALTED THEM.  Yes, I salted my tortilla chips. My beloved grandmother who would have never been caught dead without her trusty handbag ALWAYS carried a salt shaker in her purse. Always. I do not exaggerate. The woman went nowhere without extra salt, or her purse. I get it now. I’m old.

Notice Dear Queen Elizabeth in this lovely family portrait from the recent christening – WITH HER PURSE. She probably has a shaker of salt in there.

You know how I really know I’m forty – I. Just. Don’t. Care. I’ll confuse teenage sales clerks, toot in public and salt whatever I like – and I really don’t care. I’m cool with it. I’m forty.