I’m 35. Thirty-Five. XXXV.
Damn. No matter how you put that, it looks old.
The little cherub who was the flower girl at my wedding just got her driver license. Shortly after I met my younger step-brother, he was 4 and pretending he was a ninja in my dad’s wedding pictures. He can pound shots at the bar now. The first time I met my older step-brother, he was 7 and flashed his scrawny boy chest to everyone on the street and yelled, “I HAVE BOOBIES!!!” He is having a baby in March. When I was back in Michigan for my sister’s graduation from high school, I was weaning The Rockstar. He recently has googled underwater sex. My baby sister is almost 29!
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am actually exiting an entire demographic. I can no longer put my little check mark on 18-34.
I’m 35. Doesn’t really feel that different, actually. I’m not where I thought I’d be, but that’s ok. My marriage is the best it’s ever been, my boys are in the best condition academically they have ever been, I have strong friendships, and I weigh almost the same as I did on my wedding day. (Oh, yes, I went there. Don’t make me play the sympathy/jobless bum card! Yeah, I thought you’d back down a little. Suckers.)
What in Bob’s name happened to the time??? I don’t feel 35, or Thirty-Five, or even XXXV!