This past Saturday I turned 29. The last of my twenties. I officially have less than a year before I become a thirty-something. OMG I think a piece of my heart died. Seriously? That’s where I am? Coming up on 30???
I’M TURNING 40!!! In eleven years . . . BUT IT’S THERE!
It’s there. Right there. I’m coming up on the bottom of the hill.
This will have no bearing on my want to read YA. It’s still what I write so I’d be a pretty big dumbass to forgo it because I’m going to need to start buying speciality products for thirty-somethings soon. Which I still won’t buy because I have the skin of a sixteen-year-old without it being sixteen-year-old skin. Hi and welcome to eczema if I use anything harsher than Dove sensitive bar soap. Or that I have a chest of a ten-year-old boy.
What difference does age make? Other than cheaper insurance rates and the societal pressure to be a big kid? I have a squeezy toy in my cube where its eyes bug out when you squeeze it. I thumb my nose at big kids.
But I’m still freaking out about the impending thirty. Gone is the decade of no longer being a teenager, legal drinking and car rentals without heinous fees. That enters into the old hat territory along with trying not to gain weight eating an extra M&M.
I expect to have a few Sally moments in my future. They can’t be helped. Aging = basketcase. What can I say?