Today at 4:58PM I will officially be 32 years old.
The idea of my 32nd birthday has always given me the heebie jeebies because my mom was 32 when she had me. When I learned that fact, 32 became the age — the age you become an adult and make babies and do yard work on the weekends for fun. I have avoided turning 32…until now.
It turns out there is something to my theory about 32. I read a story titled, “32 — the age at which we turn in to our parents.” Granted, it is based on very un-scientific research via a poll on some super British website called Netmums…but still. It’s on the Internet and that makes it true.
I also read about this 32-year-old woman who went to sleep and woke up thinking she was 15 again. It sounds like a bad romantic comedy, but this is for real. She had stress-triggered dissociative amnesia and didn’t recognize her kid, her lower voice, and the crazy ass technology in her house. At first I thought I’d want to this to happen to me, but then I realized being 15 again would be awful. The crap I worried about when I was 15 was so stupid, I didn’t know how to drive yet, and no one had told me about how great hair straighteners could be.
I did discover Britney Spears when I was 15 though…so there’s that.
I guess what I’m saying is that I’ll give 32 a fair shot. I’m not doing any yard work, though. And if I have to push a baby out, I’m going to be really mad.