A story about identity tangles

So a Jew, an economist, and guy learning Arabic walk into a bar... stop me if you've heard this one before. Wait, nevermind, that was actually me and two of my friends last night. It's Tuesday night and after some roast chicken and a bottle of wine, my friend and I decide we're not ready to call it quits yet. We meet a third friend and stand at a street corner trying to decide on a bar. My friend says, "Let's go to the dirtiest bar we can find." No problem. The dirtiest bar (not in a cleanliness sense, by the way) is actually right in front of us! It'll remain unnamed, you'll see why later.

I used to go to this bar a lot... when I was nineteen. Now, there's a silly law that says that at eighteen you can sign up to die for your country, but you can't be in a bar (or most adult stores, for that matter), so like all resourceful city girls, I worked around it. Kids will be kids, right? Or something like that. This was long ago, so I completely forgot if I ever mentioned my age to him.

So my comrades and I are in this bar, and the co-owner/bartender remembers me really well since we used to chat often when I was a frequent patron. He asks me if I'm married yet, naturally much to my friends' bewilderment, and then says "You must be 27 by now, or 28?"

"23."

"So you were what, 19, when you started coming here?" He does't seem amused, and I suddenly remember that he thought I was 23 five years ago. That's when I pull a brilliant line:

"I started aging in reverse once I hit 25. I don't think being over 25 is very becoming."

I'm such an agist.