You know it’s funny–I don’t feel 35. Most days, I don’t think I really look 35 either. But yet, here it is–June 14th. My 35th birthday.
I still remember when 18 seemed old.
These days, my Facebook friends post birth announcements and snapshots of their kids’ birthday parties; news of their parents’ retirements and occasional passings. When you’re 35, there is a sudden undercurrent of panic about reaching advanced maternal age and a sobering realization that ogling Zac Efron without his shirt on is inappropriate and mildly creepy. The last time I had my teeth cleaned, the hygienist called me “sweet girl” and I found myself wondering how much time I had before people started addressing me as ma’am instead.
Still, I actually feel pretty good about this birthday (which is unusual, by the way). At 35, I know who I am, feel gratitude for what I have and care a lot less about keeping up with everybody else. I love life. That’s why I wish it wasn’t going by so fast.
I’m at a point when 18 seems so very young.
And because I am a full-fledged grown-up, there will be no celebratory shots or loud parties to attend. Instead I will slip into heels and a pretty dress and share a quiet dinner with the man who, God willing, will toast me on my 45th, 55th, and 65th birthdays too.
It’s a happy birthday.