Today, while I taught 4th graders about the Chinese New Year during a substitute job, we talked about what year the students were born in. Some were born in the year of the horse, others in the year of the ram. After we established what sign each of them are, they wanted to know what mine is. I told them that I was born in 1981 and that makes me a rooster. I didn't explain that this is often referred to as the year of the cock. For obvious reasons. Especially since I'd already had one kid say to another, "Why'd you narc on me, Douche." In my mind, I crawled into the fetal position and sucked my thumb because of the WHAT? and the MY KID IS GOING TO BE A FOURTH GRADER IN FOUR YEARS AND HE'D BETTER NOT BE CALLING PEOPLE THAT BECAUSE OF ALL THE INAPPROPRIATE. Plus he was just born. Like, yesterday.
So I said I was born in the year of the rooster. In 1981. At that point, a kid yelled out, "81! That's before the phone was invented!"
I'm 31, people. THIRTY ONE. It's not as though Alexander Graham Bell turned to his friends and said about me, "No, I don't know her. She was way before my time."