1 Year Closer to Death

Yesterday I turned 29. 29. It's the age that everyone says they are until they suck it up and finally admit that fine, okay, they're really 57. But I don't see what the big deal is about this milestone. Sure it's the last year I'll be able to say I'm in my 20s, but I'm really okay with that. Being a person who fears death and the end of anything from the fall season to summer camp, I started wondering why I'm not freaking out about turning 29. After all, I'm probably over a third of the way through my life.

Maybe I'm not afraid of turning 29 because I still look like I'm 17. I don't have wrinkles. I don't have that mature look that screams "I am not a girl anymore, I'm a woman!" I don't use a pocketbook or wear high heels or makeup. I opt for jeans and t-shirts and put my hair in a ponytail most every day. So how can I fear getting old when I know I won't look it for awhile? Don't get me wrong; I am not asking for your sympathy because I look young. But let's just say that it's tough for me to make "Oh my god I'm going to turn 30 soon!" complaints when I still shop at Gap Kids.

I guess if I were truly a 29 year old woman, right now I'd be curling up on my sofa drinking a giant glass of red wine, watching Grey's Anatomy, planning a night out with my girls at The Bell In Hand, and perusing the pages of Us magazine. Ugh. Thank god I'm just a 29 year old girl instead.