Women (some, not all) have been lying about their age forever.

In 1869, when the Wyoming Territory became the first future state to grant women the right to vote, at least one 67-year-old female probably told a lonely rancher she was 29.

Even sheep were skeptical of this whopper.

Wyoming was not trying to be “with it.” “Cool.” “Woke.” The territory was trying to attract more females. Men there outnumbered women six to one.

Today, baby boomer men, like me, are also tempted to lie about their age and tell people we’re 29.

Why? Because being the same age as old people is weird.

Since I am a whiz at simple math, the guy nicknamed “the human calculator,” the fellow who could do figures in his head faster than the Lone Ranger could drop his gun and punch a bad guy, I know I am technically old.

What made me old? Ironically, it was algebra and geometry. I’d be 17 and leaving the Elmer Fudd (“hunting wabbits”) High School classroom feeling as if I was 71.

College “remedial math” was no better. I’d enter the classroom with pep in my step and emerge an arthritic dinosaur.

When I transferred colleges at age 21 to avoid math, I felt 50 years younger. I felt -29, as if I hadn’t been born yet.

Today, in my head, I still feel 29. Mentally, I can climb mountains, run marathons, keep up with speedy younger colleagues.

Then reality sinks in, especially if I see a mirror.

Mirrors lie.

At the high school reunion — my 50th is this year — I will wonder what I am doing among all these “old people.” It’s weird being the same age as these lumpy, aching people who chat about surgeries as they used to about diving off bridges or “dragging the gut.”

Then I will go home. Reality will set in when I try to stand up from the EZ chair. I’ll moan and groan. Body parts will sing the Rice Krispies snap, crackle, pop song.

Mirrors are the worst. I avoid them like some rich people avoid taxes. Where did all the silver hair come from? The wrinkles? The befuddlement?

Feeling 29, though, has benefits. I don’t rule out climbing mountains until I reach base camp and realize peaks seem 10 times bigger now.

So I hike instead. I think I can keep up with people half my age whose pace makes flowers blur. When they cross a distant ridge leaving a trail of dust, I think about the words of John Muir, the naturalist who promoted sauntering.

I am good at sauntering. That’s true even when I drive, much to the consternation of younger people rushing to work and showering me with expletives.

I saunter when I read. When I was 29, I read a book a week. Now I’m lucky to get through a book a month. I seek out small books with all the enthusiasm of folks who chase conspiracy theories.

When I dare look in the mirror, I see half as many muscles as I had at 29.

So even though my parents taught me not to lie, cheat, steal or figure a 350-square foot apartment selling for $405,000 in Aspen, Colorado, is a good deal, I tell myself I’m young. I’m vital and spry — not like those guys droning on about their latest knee replacement.

To maintain the illusion, I plan to avoid mirrors — at least until after this summer’s high school reunion.