I love my birthday… but I have always had Peter Pan Syndrome. I just hate the number and the fact that when it grows it comes with more responsibility. I know I would’t want to just stay one age, but change scares me and I don’t deal well with it. I go kicking and screaming with every fiber in my being.
In my mind there are the big ages, the ages that mean something.
1, 5, 10, 13, 16, 18, 21, 25, 30, 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90, 100.
It’s funny how the earlier years are so much closer together on milestones, but it looks like the rest of the years lump together in decade long spans. Maybe things move slower when your older altogether.
When I was younger I had a plan. By 21 I would be out of college (failed this, made it to 22). By 25 I would married (still a possibility, but engaged and married in a little less than year? I want one hell of a wedding, how could I pull that off? Note to honey, get another raise!). At 30 I would be a mother of 3 (Ummm hello I’m not ready yet! That’s only 6 years away! How in the world can I get engaged, pull of the wedding of the decade (sorry Kate, my turn), settle into my 10,000 square foot mansion, model in Milan, and have three kids?). And that’s as far as I got, because honestly who looks forward to their 40s?