Some Thoughts on Turning 29

Yesterday I celebrated my 29th birthday* (*age might be off by one number . . .). The day kind of came in like a lion and out like a . . . more tamed lion. The main thing, though, is that it is now over . . . which means I am breathing a sigh of relief.

You see, I am not crazy about my birthdays (I do, of course, really enjoy other people’s birthdays, no matter what their age), but I especially dislike turning ages that end in “9.” I have found over the years that these are even worse than the round numbers that come next, marking the actual decade of getting older.

For example, when I was nearing the end of my first year of college (only 10 years ago—it’s hard to believe, isn’t it?), I turned 19. For weeks I dreaded this birthday, thinking 19 sounded so old . . . mostly because it meant I was only one year away from turning 20 (and YES, I do wish I could go back in time and slap my former self!).

The following year I actually did turn 20, and it wasn’t really that bad. Anticipating it was much worse.

The same happened when I turned 29. I was so upset about it, and worried about turning 30 for an entire year. When 30 actually came, it was rather a pleasant day—my students all signed a big card, sang to me, and even brought in a cake.

But that hasn’t happened yet, has it? For some reason I am seeing the future much more clearly than usual. Anyway, something to look forward to next year, I guess.

This year I am, unfortunately, exhibiting several signs of old age, including wrinkles, memory loss, the inability to eat whatever I want and not have it show, and—the obvious—compulsive lying.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I actually turned 39 yesterday. Which means next year I will be . . . well, we’ll just cross that bridge when we get to it, right?

Yikes!