The Years

When you were growing up, did you ever have a "scary" age? That self-assigned year, marked by some distant birthday in the future, at which time you would have your shit together? Maybe you called it something different, like your "grown-up" age. (And also, before proceeding further: Maybe we can agree when you realize no age is "scary," you've definitely reached your "scary" age.)

My "scary" age was 28.

At the tender age of 14, I designated 28 as the year I'd have it "all"—the husband, the kids, the corner office, the house. All the things 90s rom-coms told me would equal success. If I had to guess why I picked such an arbitrary number, it's that I doubled the number of years I'd been on earth, and figured this would be enough time to become "an adult." Foolproof methodology, right?

I've been thinking about my (former) scary age recently, long since lived and photographed and archived, because this month, Joe is celebrating his 35th birthday. And for some reason, as it approached, it has felt like a big, maybe even "scary" birthday for both of us—far more so than 30, I'd say.