As of 12:01, I am officially 28 years old!
I wouldn’t even mention it, but this is the only time in my life I’ll have my 28th birthday on the 28th, so I can’t let that one go by.
This week has been a parade of relatives calling to wish me happy birthday and getting the vague “Oh…right…birthday…” that characterizes most birthdays after 21. However, the sheer weight of people reminding me has actually cemented it in my brain. I am twenty-eight. Woo!
Your twenties are sort of like driving across Montana. It just keeps going, and going, and the distant mountains of your thirties are far off on the horizon, and they never seem to get any closer. And then eventually you glance up from the roadmap, and dude! They’re RIGHT THERE! There’s snow! And maybe bears! And–OH, GOD, IS THAT NORTH DAKOTA?!
Really, I’m not that worried. I have the best job in the world, a fabulous husband, and I don’t live in a constant state of fiscal anxiety. I would have been happy to achieve that by forty, frankly. So twenty-eight finds me congenial and mellow and ready for another year. Life is good.