In conversations with my guy, we're often the same age, but other times we waver back and forth. Sometimes he's younger and playful, and I'm the older one reeling him in. Other times he's the old one, wise and reasonable trying to calm my childish tantrums.

Playful, goofy sex makes me 20. Warm, passionate sex is more 40-ish. A back rub that soothes my aching body leaves me a relaxed and well-cared-for 80-year-old.

Stealing big rocks from a construction site at night (loaded in my baby carriage no less), I'm 12. Carefully positioning them in my garden in the morning with a cup of tea nearby, I'm at least 60.

When my knees and ankles crack going downstairs in the morning, I'm about 70. When I'm not done dancing at two a.m., I'm 17.

Generally, in the mornings I'm the worst of the aged, cantankerous, with few words of wisdom. In the afternoons, I'm a middle-aged worker getting stuff done. In the early evening, I'm a young mother caring for my kids. But once night falls, I'm a teenager ready to play.

And every single time I ride my bike, I'm 10 years old, in a bathing suit with bare feet, off to get a 5-cent freezie from the store.