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.