Another year…
Despite fervent protestations from my readers and several noted judicial scholars, I have once again been allowed to live another year.
Turning 31 was not as big a deal as turning 30 was, which was (in turn) not as big a deal as 29 had been.
Thirty-one is no 21 or 25, that’s for sure. Those years held some significance, if only because they held new opportunities for me. At 21 I could (legally) drink. At 25, I got married.
At 30, I worried a bit about my reaction to turning 30, not realizing that my worrying was the reaction.
It was 29 that punched me between the eyes. That was when I started to panic that I would not, in the last year before 30, accomplish all those things that I thought I would do. And my panicking was well thought out, as I proceeded to not accomplish anything.
It’s a tradition I’ve kept up ever since. I’m reading no great novels, nor writing any. I’m certainly not trying any harder at this job. My back lawn is still a mess (and no, that’s not a euphemism) and I can’t grow a tomato to save my life.
And so, another year. Here’s to mediocrity! Wooooo–*cough*cough* ooo!
…another year.
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