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“So how old are you, anyway?” Michael asked me.  “You look like you’re about 12.”

Stiffening, I replied, “I’ll be 22 this year.”  At his frankly disbelieving look, I dug into my handbag and pulled out my driver’s license.  “Here,” I said, shoving it at him.  Michael took it from me.  “Angela Wolff,” he read out loud, “date of birth November 25^th, 1972.”  He handed it back to me.  “Wolff, eh?  That’s appropriate.”

I had to stop myself from demanding an explanation for this bizarre and probably insulting observation.  I was at Jamie’s family home, after all, trying to make nice with his relatives.  I therefore limited myself to asking Michael, “How old are you?”

“I’m 33.  You do know that Jamie is 32, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you think you should be playing with kids your own age?”

“How old is your girlfriend?” I returned.  “She doesn’t look 33.  In fact, I wouldn’t think she’s all that much older than I am.”

His eyes narrowing, Michael answered, “She’s 26.”

“Hmmn,” I said, but that was the end of it because Jen bounced over to us.  “Who’s 26?” she demanded.  “Me?  That’s right!  Was he telling everyone's age?  Because Jamie is 32—you already know that, of course—Matt is 31, and Michael is 33.  All three of them, right in a row!”

“That’s interesting,” I told her.  Michael let out a short laugh.  “I’m sure you’re fascinated,” he said.  “But, don’t worry, you got the one with the most money.  Well done.”

“Yes, that was rather clever of me, wasn’t it?” I retorted.  “In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to Tiffany’s and drape myself in diamonds.”  I then marched into the living room, telling myself that Michael hating me wasn’t a total loss.  At least I would have one less family member to buy a Christmas present for.