Last week I attended a surprise 30th birthday party for Smart Girl. Most of the participants were in their late twenties or early thirties. I ended up chatting with a woman who commented on being older, single and childless and how hard it is. I sympathized and mentioned that since we don’t have children yet, and the husband I do have is often working, I’ve ended up with many single women friends in their late thirties. She blinked at me and asked, “How old are you?”
“I’ll be 39 soon”
She gasped, “I NEVER would have guessed that. You don’t look your age at all!”
(Thanks, Mary Kay! And the basal cell skin cancer in my 20’s that has made me a sun avoider ever since...)
39. Tomorrow. I’m surprised how little it affects me as a number. I’m fine with approaching my 40’s. I’m in good shape, I love my life and there are adventures ahead. The only place of fear is around us having children. We’ve been trying since the miscarriage last December, but lots of circumstances have conspired to make it difficult. It’s just strange to know that every month is crucial, and that no matter how young I look or feel, inside my body, I’m still 39 years old.