You're still kind of young in your 30s, right? I mean, not midriff-baring young. Or binge-drinking young. But, relatively young.
I'm turning 40 in three days. I never thought I'd have a problem with 40. Or any age. In fact, when people complain about being old, it annoys me. I find it graceless. I throw all the platitudes at them: But you're wiser! And more distinguished! And you're so much more interesting than boring midriff-baring, binge-drinking youngsters.
Sigh. Now here I am. About to flip my first digit to a 4. And, yeah, I'm freaking out a little.
I started compiling a list of activities I could still get away with as a 39-year-old that maybe, when I'm 40, not so much. I reasoned that if I busted out three a day, I could fit them all in before Friday.
They were all things like Go Clubbing. Get Hair Extensions. Toss the F-word around without caring who hears it.
Which, really, if I'm mourning skanky hair, pounding beer until I can't see straight and cursing, then forty's probably not going to be so bad.
I'm pretty in touch with my inner old soul as it is. I am prone to sitting around and listening to the quiet (or a brook! or Matlock! Not really!) and knitting. I cannot consume more than two glasses of wine on any given night. I like slippers.
So what am I freaking out about, really? 40! Who cares. I scoff at 40.