So I've skirted around the age thing here a bit. Not so much because I care but because I'm SUPPOSED to care.
It's one of those things women are not allowed to talk about.
The other is of course weight.
My kids have been obsessed with age for a long as I can remember. They know better than I do how old Triple S will turn this year and they sure as hell know how old I'm going to be.
SPOILER ALERT it's 40.
In case you didn't figure that out yet.
I'm a bicentennial baby. That's a thing you know. Before there were state quarters there were bicentennial quarters. 1976 In case you didn't want to do the math. The year the country turned 200. Luckily I'm not that old. Or unlucky? Not sure If I'd want to live that long.
Whatever. Back on topic.
40 is the new 30 or 20? I'm not sure. I'm also not sure why I'm supposed to freak out. Sure there are more lines on my face than there were last year and me and hair color aren't just friends anymore. It's more of a codependent relationship. But .....
Wait where was I going with this?
Oh yeah. Who cares.
I have a great life. A husband who supports my craziness. Kids who have never had to be "scared straight" and not one but two jobs I love. Not to mention some of the greatest friends a grown woman could ask for.
That sounds a bit like I'm protesting too much plus there was a distinct lack of sarcasm. Maybe my age is maturing me?
Probably not though since I'm typing this in a Wolverine T-shirt.