Dad: So how old are you now?
Me: I turn 25 in June.
Dad: Really? Are you sure?
Me: What do you mean, 'am I sure'? How is it you don't know how old I am?
Dad: I thought you were 24 last year.
Dad, handing me a paper sack: Well ... don't forget to eat your breakfast burrito.
Epilogue to this story: At the time we had this convo, Dad was dropping me off at BART, and I really didn't want the breakfast burrito. He kept shoving it at me though, because that's what he's like, and I was a total bitch about it, but finally took it because I figured that was the only way we were leaving the house.
So I get to BART and I'm actually planning to admit defeat and eat this thing. But when I open the bag, there is no breakfast burrito; just an Asian pear the size of my head. I get all super happy because I haven't had one of these in years, and make a big sloppy mess of eating it on the train.
At the end of the day, when I see Dad again, he looks all stoked and goes, 'Did you eat what was in the bag?!'
I'm like, 'Yeah. Thanks for the pear!'
And he goes, 'That was your favourite snack when you were a baby!'
So really, regardless of my actual age, to my dad I'll always be roughly 6.