So tonight at the stroke of midnight, I turn into a pumpkin.
Not just any pumpkin, mind you, but an instantly old, unhip, and unimportant pumpkin. At least according to Madison Avenue.
Yes, I'll turn 35.
No longer will I get to check the little box on the surveys for the 18-34 age group. I'm out. I'm lumped in with the 50 year olds at this point. Although that isn't necessarily a bad thing, I just need some time to readjust. I'm sure come tomorrow, I'll be scratching my head at the commercials and wondering what the fuss is over the Black-Eyed Peas. Well, actually I'm there already, so I'm apparently way past my prime.
Am I now officially too old to have hair that goes down to my mid-back? How about pony tails?
Even in my 20's, I was all about comfort over fashion, so my penchant for wearing only comfortable shoes except to weddings, job interviews, and funerals will suddenly match my age status.
Do I even get any status? I think 35 is an age that is a big deal only to the person who is experiencing it.
I am not anywhere I thought I would be at this age. Hubba-hubba should have been graduating law school and taking the bar exam shortly thereafter. I was supposed to be only now pregnant or trying to get pregnant with our first child. We should have tons of money and a big house with a large backyard.
Then again, according to my pre-teen self, I should already have been a world famous actress, singer, and model. So I guess I am not doing too badly.
But if 40 is the new 30, then damnit, I'm only 25!