There are 1,128 hours until my next birthday. Normally I wouldn’t care, wouldn’t even be thinking about my birthday until the day before. But lately, I’ve been practically driven to distraction by the fact that I’m approaching the other side of my third decade.
By this next birthday, according to all basic mathematics, you can round my age up to thirty. That’s right. When people try to guess my age and I’m not around, they’re going to be saying, “She’s thirty-ish.” (The truth is most people believe that twenty-five rounds up to thirty, but I’ve chosen not to calculate things this way for the past year.)
It’s not that I think thirty is old. I don’t. I’ve known a lot of people who’ve survived the transition from twenty-nine to thirty. My sister is forty and smokin’ hot. I’m also well aware that there are people reading this who find it…
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