On Our Way To Crazy

I turned 29 this week. It made me feel old.

I never feel old, not really. I work with teenagers every day, which generally keeps me feeling young in the kind of way that makes me unable to participate in conversations with real grown ups. I have old lady moments every now and then, like when my little sister doesn’t know what Z Cavaricci’s are or when I am trying to talk to someone about the music we listened to in high school, only to realize that when I was in high school, he was in THIRD GRADE. And now we are adults. Together.

I was good at being 28. I liked 28. It worked for me. I wasn’t very good at college and young 20′s, not in the traditional sense. I didn’t party. I wasn’t crazy. It felt right to turn 28, like I’d been 28 all along and my actual age finally caught up with me.

But 29 feels old. It feels grown up. Like I don’t have an excuse for acting like a kid anymore. I kind of like being the youngest one in the room… it lets you be a little more relaxed, a little less responsible. It’s okay to be the one in the back of the room making jokes.

Old or not, I had a great birthday. My excellent friend Becka took me out for a wine and pasta lunch, I went shopping, and had a great night out with Aaron. My mom sent me a birthday box that included a stainless steel skillet, some great jewelry, tons of candy and a coffee mug that says “I HEART DALLAS”. Friends I haven’t talked to in ages called me with birthday greetings. I got excessively sweet messages from unexpected places. Aaron gave me a wax seal for letters and promised to still love me in my old lady state. It was a great day.

And now I am 29 and four days. Three hundred and sixty-one days away from 30. It’s crazy crazy crazy. At least I’ll be an old lady who sends very cool mail.