thirty-five

It's pretty straight forward why this particular number has been haunting me. Yup, good ole 2008, the year I turn thirty-five.

Holy cow, people, I'm going to be thirty-five.

As milestones go, I'm not altogether thrilled about this one. Eighteen was cool. I was in college. I could finally give blood and vote. I wasn't a very well-formed person at the time, but eighteen was still good. Likewise, twenty-one sparks memories of youth and indiscretion. Then there's twenty-five, my first whopper birthday. Twenty five was a year of tremendous transition for me (and my first major bout with depression). I came out the other side of twenty-five with a grounded sense of myself (as I should have since our brains actually fully mature at 25). Thirty was by far the best though. We took a trip to Mexico to celebrate. I was thin, newly married, soon to be pregnant with my first child. Yes, thirty was a very good year.

I'm not going to say that it's all been down hill since then (though at times I feel that way). How can one take into account the near mythical way in which one's life transforms with the birth of not one, but two children. I love them so far beyond myself. Words are not adequate.

But I digress.

Where were we? Oh yes, thirty-five, I almost forgot. I'm really not that good at remembering how old I am (ask Craig, I routinely give the wrong answer when people ask). Undoubtedly I will do the same when my birthday arrives (in the latter part of this year). Do me a favor, don't remind me that I'm wrong when I tell you I'm thirty-three or thirty-four.