The New 21

So I turned 31 years old on Tuesday. Although - probably due to my old age and failing eyesight - my brain must have misinterpreted the "3" and "1" shaped candles on my birthday cake. Because due to the four (F-O-U-R!) pimples I sprouted overnight, I'm pretty sure my body thought I was turning 13. It was all, "OMG! I'm a teenager now. Let's, like, get some zits." But my hair, ever-sensible, countered with, "Oh you silly oil glands. You're actually in your thirties now. Here, let me show you by weaving in these new strands of old-lady gray."

And then the non-pimply part of my face was like, "We ought to just deepen these crows' feet so that it's perfectly clear how old she is."

I'm pretty sure that's what happened.

It's weird that I'm officially "in my thirties." I mean, up until two days ago I was thirty, but ... that's all. Like, just thirty. Teetering on the edge. But now it's like I've jumped off the precipice. The next time my age has a zero at the end of it, I'll be ... *whisper* forty.

But if forty is the new thirty, and thirty is the new twenty, that means I'm the new TWENTY-ONE.

Who wants to go for drinks?!