I frequently forget my age and have to pause before I can answer the question, “How old are you?” I usually stutter a bit, while trying to do the math in my head (I’m terrible at math!) and then reply, “Uugghh….I’m….ugghh ….”

It’s embarrassing for two reasons:  1) I can’t do basic math in my head even though I’m a college graduate, and 2) I sound like I’m lying about my age even though that’s far from the truth.

I find age to be so irrelevant. I look at my wide circle of friends and some of my best pals weren’t even born in the same decade as me.  In fact, some of them were born several decades before me. I’d say some of my favorite friends range in age from 14 to 64.

First of all, I love my teenaged gal pals (some of which are now 20-somethings) because we shop in the same stores (minus Hot Topic and a few others), share the same musical interests (mostly), and can just be silly together. I love that they come to me for advice and it’s easy for me to recall those days when I was that age. Each year I get farther and farther from having been in that phase, but it’s easy for me to remember how critical those years were in shaping who I am today. I love hanging out with these guys who are new to double-digit birthdays because don’t take themselves or life too seriously. Spending time with them helps me gauge how fun I really am (or am not in some cases) and how much I’m able to live in the moment and enjoy what comes.

By contrast, I have friends who are my mother’s age. These are some of the women that I love the most. They know where I’m at because they’ve been here. They’ll laugh with me and cry with me. They can give objective advice that they probably couldn’t give to their own daughters because there’s no strings attached. In five minutes I can get four or five great possible solutions to problems that I’m facing. These ladies are also great pals to hang out with because they don’t have the hectic schedules or demands of motherhood that I do. They’re available for spur-of-the moment shopping trips and don’t need to find a babysitter to go to a weekday matinee.

Of course, I have girlfriends my own age, too. We commiserate one with another about the daily foils of motherhood and marriage. We call one another for venting sessions between toddler screaming fits, cleaning house, and carpooling. Unfortunately these moments rarely exist, so we rarely get to talk. It takes days of phone tag before we even get to have a five-minute conversation. I think I went months over the summer before I spoke to some of these ladies because of their frenzied pace and mine.

Proof that I don’t realize the age difference between myself and others is recorded in my mind from several recent conversations that sound like this one. One girlfriend who was new to the area asked me, “How long have you lived here?” I said, “Eight years.”

She paused for a minute, blushed, and I could sense she was holding something back, so I said, “Why? How old were you eight years ago?”

She blushed again and continued to be silent. Oh no, I thought. How old could she have been eight years ago? 16? 14? 12? Please don’t say 12! She said, “I was 14. But don’t worry—I don’t think of you as being old.”

While some may see this as a backhanded compliment, I actually take no offense to it. She has chosen me as a friend not based on my age or my stage in life but instead because of how she views the contribution she makes in my life, and how I hopefully make a payment to hers in return. Isn’t that really what friendship is about anyways?

Question: What is your friendship range? How old are your oldest and youngest friends?