A few weeks ago I had a very odd realization. It was odd because it's not something I should've just 'realized', it's something that I should've already known.
But for some reason, I didn't. Or, at least, I hadn't really thought about it.
Ready for it? In less than four months, I'm going to be 35.
There, I said it. 35.
This statement is odd, because I know I'm 34; I even remember that, for the first time in years, I went out to celebrate my birthday last year with a night at the bar with a few close friends. So you would think that if I clearly remember celebrating my 34th birthday that, by default, I would know that my next birthday would be 35.
But somehow, it hadn't occurred to me.
For some reason, I'm having trouble with this one. 35. That's a really big number. I didn't have an issue with 30 -- which probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was eight months pregnant and had a lot more to think about (like the fact that I was about to become a new mom) than turning 30.
I don't really remember turning 25 (which means I probably drank too much) and 20 was, well, a really long time ago.
But 35 is a big number. It just feels so much older than 34. It means that when I respond to surveys, I can no longer check the 18-34 box. It means I'm halfway to...gulp...40.
What I need to do is just suck it up and accept it. Because, really, there's not a damn thing I can do about it. And it's just another number, right? The 18-34 bracket was a pretty interesting ride, so the start of the next age bracket is bound to be even better.
Who knows...I was writing about running the other day, maybe turning 35 will be motivation to run a half marathon before I turn 40.