A New Year, An Old Me
I cannot believe I’m going to be 35 this year. I don’t feel 34 ¼, nor do I look 34 ¼. Or do I?
My friend Sue (who I’ll call Sue to protect her identity, except that most of our friends call her that anyway) were out aimlessly shopping in Houston on Saturday. We did the “Village” rounds: Rice and Highland. I needed to return the pimp suit my husband bought me for Christmas and she was along for the nonstop excitement of shopping for nothing in particular.
“I don’t know what to do for my birthday this year,” she says out of the blue.
Sue and I always talk about random things, but that’s what I like about her. She’ll be 29 and it’s freaking her out. The she goes on about wanting to do something, but not knowing what to do. After weighing all of her options, she finally decides to do nothing out of laziness or frustration, or both.
With a short lull in conversation, meaning that she paused to take a breath, I piped up with, “Can you believe I’ll be 35 this year?” completely disregarding the past five minutes of her angst-ridden monologue.
Like the good friend I am, I had been thinking about myself the whole time she was talking. For me 29 was traumatic. It was bad enough that I freaked out and decided to get pregnant because I was too close to 30. Sue is single so I totally get where she’s coming from. But, I’M GOING TO BE 35! That number has a five in it. That means I’m on the downward slope of a decade.
“You know,” Sue says, “my coworker has been using this new face cream and it has taken 10 years off her face, at least.”
Maybe I do look 35 after all.
