Oh, crap. I did not mean to turn 35 today. Or even this month, or this year. Or ever.
Thirty was just fine — I could still pass for 27. And at 33, most people had me pegged at 30, or 29 on a good day. And at 35? Well, I think I look my age. And that’s fine by me.
I don’t want to be 27 again. I don’t even want to look it. At 27 I was too breezy, too callow, and more gullible than I’d like to admit. Eight years later, I’m still pretty breezy and callow and gullible — but less so. Such is progress, and you hope you get it right before everything falls apart and they’re shoveling dirt on your face.
The first wrinkles are showing up. And just like my dad and his dad before him, the gray is starting low on the sides — won’t be long now before it begins working its way up. Yet puberty still hasn’t come to visit my chest. Might be time to stop waiting for it.
A more important note: Liver function, still strong!
35. Too young for middle age, too old for youth — and that strikes me as the perfect balance. Of course, it’s an unstable balance, but you can’t go backwards. That’s just fine, too. Do any of us really want 1992 again? 23 was great fun, and it sure would be fun to get a chance to do it better. But does anybody want to watch the Ross Perot campaign in reruns?