They can be misleading, and arbitrary. They can be used to skew the facts, or prove a point. And age is one of the trickiest numbers.

Should our age define our behavior?  Must we always ‘act our age’?

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” –Mark Twain

“There’s nothing sadder than an aging hipster.”  – Lenny Bruce

There are some instances when acting one’s age is necessary. Fashion, for example. We’ve all seen the middle-aged woman trying – and failing – to rock a trendy outfit, one perhaps better left to the bright young things.

But just as sad are young women who hide themselves behind baggy t-shirts, high necklines, and unflattering skirt lengths. This is the best you’ll ever be, I long to tell them. Celebrate your youth (and those firm, non-wobbly thighs) while you still can!

In my twenties, like most young women, I thought I needed to lose weight. I was painfully self-conscious in a swimsuit, convinced my ass was as big as New Jersey. But when I look back at pictures of myself from those days, I’m struck by how slim and strong and healthy my body was. I wasn’t fat. And my ass looked pretty good.

I guess, as Joni Mitchell famously sang, you really don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

When I was young, I thought people noticed everything I did.  I felt like a bug under a microscope – subject to constant scrutiny.  It didn’t matter whether I walked across a room or trekked over the sand from my beach towel to the ocean – I was certain every eye was on me.

Then one day, I realized that nobody was paying the slightest mind to me; they were far too busy worrying about their own wobbly thighs or regrettable outfits to give one damn about me.

As much as I miss my twenty-something figure and my smooth, twenty-something sag-free skin, I wouldn’t return to those days. Not on a bet. I like being comfortable in my own, a-little-less-firm skin. I like knowing that, while I may not be nineteen any longer, I’m okay with who I am now. I’m smarter and wiser, even if I have laugh lines bracketing my mouth, and even if my waist is no longer 26 inches (sorry, but it was never 24 inches).

And while I care about my appearance, it doesn’t define me. I’m just as much ‘me’ in jeans and Converse high-tops as I am in heels and a dress. More so, in fact.

Of course, when it comes to relationships, numbers matter, too. While the older man/younger woman dynamic was once the norm, now the reverse is just as common. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Why shouldn’t an older woman, like a man, flaunt a little arm candy? And if that arm candy turns out to be well-read as well as gorgeous? Even better.

For myself, I’ve always preferred older men. Intelligence, confidence (and knowing the difference between Pinot Gris and Pinot Grigio) is incredibly sexy.

Which brings me to Mr. Oliver. He knows me better than I know myself, he brews a perfect cup of coffee, and he’s far too smart to ever answer the “does my ass look big in these trousers?’ question. He does his thing, I do mine, and it suits us both. Yet he’s always there when I need him.

And he still makes for pretty good arm candy.