I love old people. Not in a creepy sort of Anna Nicole Smith sort of way, I assure you. But more in a I love shuffle board, aquarobics, useless crap, game shows and eating dinner at four o'clock, sort of way. I love them, because I aspire to be them, at the ripe age of twenty one.

They always have something interesting to talk about and the crown jewel of all of this, is it seems that the older you get, the more your verbal filter seems to degenerate. Therefore leaving only the snarkyest comments behind.

For example. I went to visit my oldest and bestest old-person friend this afternoon to wish her a happy birthday (she is sprightly, clocking in at 73 years young). Shortly after my arrival, she had already fed me 400 pounds of cheerios and sewed buttons onto more than half of my wardrobe. It was at this point where the true joy of old-age comes into play.

As I was casually sipping my coffee and chatting about last nights episode of Jeopardy, I felt a yawn creeping up on me. Next thing you know, I'm yawning, and I mindlessly mention that I am a little tired. Without missing a beat, she causally asks "what's his name?" all while munching on Cheerios and cookies like she didn't ask me a completely inappropriate question, and in front of a third grader I might add!

I love it. I can't wait until it is socially acceptable for me to ask ridiculous, prying questions about other people's lives.

Really, What's not to love?