One of my colleagues had her thirty-eighth birthday last week. When I asked her how she felt about it, she said it wasn’t such a great birthday.  For some reason, it bothered her. To her, thirty-eight means not necessarily old, but no longer young.

She has three beautiful children under eight.  She has a challenging job that means a lot to her.  She’s married to her high school sweetheart.  Sounds ideal. 

Of course, compared to me, I told her, she is barely out of her crib.  We laughed about that. 

Would I change places with her? I don’t think I want to be thirty-eight again.

But thirty-nine might be nice.