Thanks, Playboy, for making me feel old.

I recently read or heard somewhere that you know you're getting old when you start noticing that the Playmates keep getting younger and younger. If that's the case, then I must be ancient, because I've been noticing for a while now.

Before I continue, yes, my husband has had a Playboy subscription for several years. No, I don't care if he's looking at pictures of airbrushed naked girls whom he will never meet and/or have a chance in hell of sleeping with. And yes, I do read the magazine and the stories it runs are usually pretty good stuff. So there.

Anyway, one of the habits I've gotten into each month is checking to see how old the Playmate is. Sad, I know, but I do it. And each year it just gets more depressing. I actually find my spirits lifting a bit on the rare occasion when the Playmate is 23 or (gasp!) 25. A few months ago I think they ran a 28-year-old. I was practically floating on air for a day.

But this month's Miss April should have been called Miss Awful, because that's how I felt when I saw her. As I casually flipped through the pages, I noticed she was born in 1990. I realize that makes her 21, but still ...

... 1990! I remember that year!

I was 7. It was the year one of my mom's horses was born. That's my most vivid memory because I loved horses, and I woke up one sunshiney day and heard the dogs barking and I looked out my window and boom, there was a new baby horse in our pasture, and I was the first person in our house to notice. But other big things happened, too. One of my many little cousins was born that year, and many more were born in the years after that.

I guess seeing someone of their age taking her clothes off for a magazine is vaguely disturbing to me. Doesn't seem that long ago that they were running around in diapers ... or that I was running outside to greet that baby horse.

The weird thing is, I'm still young. Twenty-seven, by most adult standards, is a far cry from being "old," and I'm really not much older than the girl in the magazine. So why am I suddenly feeling like a dinosaur? Could it be the increasing disconnect I feel toward everything that is "young and hip" by today's standards? Have I reached that age where my brain has become stuck in a certain generational time warp, never to evolve further? (Side note: I still don't have a Twitter account or smartphone. Take that, Generation Tech!)

Whatever it is, one thing's for sure: I've got a lot of life left to live. I might not be young and modern anymore, but these days "older and wiser" isn't looking so bad.

Let's stop being nice. Really.

The older I get, the more I realize that I'm just not a nice person. Some might say I'm straightforward. Others might call me abrasive. Most people who know me well just call me a bitch.

It's not that I can't be tactful or carry on with social niceties. I can, and I have. I just don't care for it. Being "nice" all the time is exhausting. Because being nice these days doesn't involve just being a likable person. Being nice has since devolved into simply being non-offensive or politically correct.

Seems like it doesn't matter these days if you lie your face off, or if you never say anything substantial, as long as you don't hurt anyone's feelings. To all of you who fall into this category and try to be non-offensive all the time, I just want you to know, having a conversation with you is absolutely maddening.

There once was a time -- not that long ago, really -- when honesty and straightforwardness were commendable qualities. Nowadays, they make you an asshole. Too many people end up getting their feelings hurt. But I say, if you don't want my opinion, don't ask. (Yes, I've learned the value of keeping my mouth shut.)

Here's the thing. I really don't care much anymore if people think I'm nice. It's not that I'm deliberately mean to people (well, not unless you deserve it). I'm just honest and I don't like to sugar-coat things. I'd rather just say what I think instead of dancing around a topic, worrying about whether what I say will offend someone. And I know there are plenty of people out there like me, but sometimes I suspect I'm part of a dying breed.

My approach to conversation doesn't always make people feel good. It doesn't always make me friends. But the friends I have made will always know where I stand.