I have a birthday coming up next month. I turn 35.
Admittedly, I’ve felt a little weird about 35. You can’t pretend that an age that ends with a five is still in the early realm of a decade. Thirty-five means I’m solidly in my mid-thirties. Solidly in my thirties … and still not having much of a clue. I’m not quite sure where I thought I’d be by 35, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. Now, I kind of like where I am … but I’m still getting used to the idea of not having a plan and figuring out as I go along.
Existential crisis for one, please!
Last night, My Guy and I went out for Chinese food. The restaurant was busy, and we were seated next to a table of four couples, all in their late 70s to early 80s. The girls sat at one end of the table, and the boys at the other. The boys were talking about sports, and the girls were gossiping and laughing.
It just made me happy. It made me miss my grandparents. And it made me realize that it doesn’t matter what your chronological age might be – when you’re with your friends, you’re still about 20.
And then the harried waitress took our order. When I ordered a glass of wine, she asked for my ID. This alone delighted me, and I chalked it up to my baby-faced boy toy, who is four and a half years younger than I am.
But alas, no! The waitress looked at my ID. And started giggling and apologizing. “I’m so sorry! You look so young! I’m so sorry! Your skin – so young!”
Like I said: AWESOME.