So, I mentioned a while back that I’m on the cusp of turning 35. Tomorrow is the big day, and I’m taking this time … the last day before my customary birthday week of Dionysian pleasures … to, ya know, assess, reassess, and generally ponder things.

First off, I want to save you all the nail-biting suspense. I do not now nor did I ever have any intention of discontinuing the mini skirt. In fact, tomorrow I may just don my shortest skirt as a fuck-you to What Not to Wear and to the 35-year-old hags who ruin it for the rest of us. Whoa. Okay. Sorry. I’m a little on edge. I’ve never been a big fan of birthdays. In fact, as I get older they get easier … such has been my hatred for birthdays historically.

Some people as they get older say things like “I’ve never felt younger.” Mostly, I think that’s bullshit. But … who am I to judge? I certainly don’t feel younger than I ever have. I’m glad to report, though, I don’t feel much older either.

I’ve always needed eight to nine hours of sleep. Always found Matlock, Diagnosis Murder, and Murder, She Wrote oddly riveting and the elderly protagonists sympathetic. Always been fond of naps. Always thought Ensure was rather tasty. Shit, I used to come home from high school and watch Bob Ross to unwind. (True story.) In short, I’ve always been a little old lady in a young person’s bod.

But wait. It gets weirder. Physically, I am every bit the pre-pre-middle aged hottie with a theoretically functional womb who you imagine when you envision the minx who writes these posts. In most other ways, though, I am a teenage boy. I’ve mentioned this before, but every day it becomes more true.

This morning I saw some penis graffiti in the park. Did I report it to the authorities? No. Did I try to wipe it off? No. Did I look away in disgust and mutter “Kids!” under my breath? Once again, no. I snapped a pic for my blog instead. (You’re welcome.)

Yesterday, I laughed harder at the vagina jokes in Superbad than my date—purportedly a man (and, therefore, a former teenage boy), though I have no definitive confirmation of this. (Kevin, if there is someone who can vouch for your junk, let me know. I’m happy to amend this post. No moms or ex-girlfriends, please.)

Hmm. I forgot where I was going with this. Perhaps dementia is setting in already.

I still have over 30 hours until I’m officially 35, but I doubt I will feel much different (except, hopefully, a little more drunk). I don’t think I’ll be acting (or dressing) dramatically different. The blog won’t be any funnier or better, and I shan’t be any more wise or any less sophomoric, I wouldn’t expect.

You can check back to be sure, though, if you still believe in the magical power of 35. Yet another bubble that I’m more than happy to burst.

Posted in SoC on 19 Aug 2007 |