a slight exaggeration (maybe)

My elder lad seems to be developing a penchant for hyperbole, a favorite literary device of mine: "this cookie is like 10 weeks old.  I'm going to throw it out."  (it *might* have been three days old, but quibbling over such details can be an exercise in futility)   He also thought the pasta that spilled all over the pantry floor in the course of a game of "store" was "something like 10 weeks old" and likewise needed to go. 

For him, it's "10 weeks".  For me, it's the number 45   As in, "I find myself with an unexpected, unspoken-for parcel of time of unknown length.  I can think of 45 things that need to get done in that time, but don't know where to start.  Maybe some chocolate will help me decide."