So. Today is my last day of being 28 years old.
Typically, I’m such a big fan of birthdays (particularly my own) and the personalized attention that comes with them, that I don’t mind at all the thought of becoming a year older.
But there’s just something distasteful about the thought of 29.
After all, 29 is the age that every woman OVER the age of 29 that is desperately trying to hold onto her youth claims to be.
When I hear the age 29, I immediately picture a 45 year old woman in tight leopard print pants and a hot pink shirt with too much makeup on and hair dyed and curled in the exact same style of her 1980’s Prom…
Come to think of it, I think I took a picture of 29 in my Tailgating post…
Yes, she’s exactly my mental image of 29.
I know – everyone says that 30 is the difficult-to-swallow birthday. But at least when I’m 30, no one will doubt me. Because who goes around claiming to be 30 when they’re not??
But, for the duration of this year, every time I tell someone how old I am, they’ll look at me with doubt and suspicion, wondering if that’s how old I really am, or if I’m really just a very self-conscious 45 year old who still pulls out her prom dress to wear to football games.
Or maybe they won’t.
But whether they actually think that or not, I’ll be nervous on the inside, WONDERING if they’re thinking that, much like when someone casually asks, “Where in the world did Ali get those blue eyes and her curly hair?”, and I start nervously stumbling around with what color eyes her Grandparents have and trying desperately to subtly prove that she is indeed both mine and Chris’ child without looking like I’m nervous because then they’ll TOTALLY think I’m lying, and all the time wishing I carried a DNA test around with me.
So while I’m getting that portable DNA test, I’ll go ahead and stick my birth certificate in my Packet of Proof – so when someone asks me how old I am, I can spout out with a wild-eyed, slightly-insane look in my eye,
“I’m 29. And I’m REALLY 29, not just saying I’m 29. See? See here? Here’s my birth certificate. You can clearly see that I was born on October 9th, 1981, making me definitively 29. And while I’m at it, here’s my child’s DNA test proving that she is indeed a very odd mixture of mine and my husband’s genes. Anything else you’re thinking I’m lying about? Because if so, I can totally add it to my Packet of Proof!”
…and then they will slowly back away from me, a little scared…
So here’s to 29 years of overanalytical paranoid conclusion jumping.