Member-only story
I have gone through my twenties and am midway through my thirties.
I did not have a big bash when I turned twenty-one or twenty-anything for that matter.
Nor did I have a meltdown when I was unmarried and childless at age thirty.
Getting older has never been a point of contention for me. Getting older has barely even ever received even more than a nod of acknowledgement from me.
Oh, thirty-four you are leaving? Well, so long, we had a decent run, see you never and welcome thirty-five.
Grey hairs have not (yet) sent me running to the salon with a wad of cash clutched in my sweaty palms, begging a stylist to rid me of this telltale sign of getting older.
Wrinkles have not made me succumb to paying exorbitant amounts of money for tiny little bottles of lotion, which promise to have the elixir of life nestled within them.
A slightly lower hanging bosom has not made be book an appointment with the local plastic surgeon for a good old nip and tuck.
I am who I am. I am thirty-five and I…
