It sucks.
The End.
Fine. Not really. Okay, it really sucks, but that’s not the end. I don’t know what little switch got hit in my head, but the fact that I am THIRTY. FIVE. has hit me like a ton of bricks. Thirty-five is when you’re supposed to be mature and wise and shit because hello? You are old enough to be President of the United States of America now. Do you feel me, people? PRESIDENT. There is no way I’m mature enough to be the President of our house, much less the ENTIRE EFFING COUNTRY.
And that’s another thing. I remember when my mom was 35 very clearly (I was 15, after all), and she seemed so out of touch with what was going on in my life. As if she could even remember the Jurassic when she was a teenager to be able to relate to me. Gawd. Now? I’m the mom who is wicked out of touch with the world and utterly clueless about the innermost workings of the teenage mind…except NO, I AM NOT!! I remember all the angst and drama and pain of being 15 like it was yesterday, not twenty years ago. Oh…my…God…TWENTY YEARS AGO?! How the hell did that happen?
So, now this whole thirty-five thing keeps rolling around in my head. The more I think about it, the weirder it sounds. You know how when you say a word or phrase too often and suddenly, it looks or feels or sounds weird to you? That’s where I am with this. “I’m 35 years old” has become this bizarre mantra which has as much meaning to me as “gobbledygook”. Except the part where hello? I’m thirty. five. years. old.
Aging sucks. The end.


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