Honestly, my brain kinda glazed over being 35. That has nothing to do with my state of consciousness in the last year or how many donuts I’ve eaten since last October 19th, but it never quite sank in. I remember bowling with a group of people this summer and one girl was sure she was the oldest one there. I disagreed, then said I was 36. “Well, I’m turning 36 in a couple months…”
Maybe it’s because part of me thinks 62 is cooler than 7 x 5—I’ve got a little bit of math geek in me—but it feels like I’ve been attached to 36 for a long time instead of embracing the entirety of age 35. As things stand, here I am, not dead yet, but getting older every second. The only consolation I can think of at the moment? I don’t have to worry about remembering “in a couple months” anymore.
Happy Birthday, Shawn! I turn 36 in May, but I don’t think I’m ever gonna get “attached” to it, probably because 35 is such a nice, clean number (as those divisible by 5 always are) and because it’s still the “halfway point”. At 36 we’ll finally, officially, be closer to 40 than to 30. Yikes!