Today, I turn 35. The perfect age.
It’s always quoted when guys are losers: “You’re 35 already!”
It’s an age at which, as a kid, I pictured myself being preternaturally old. Monty Python corrected me on that when I was 15 and first saw Holy Grail. If 37 is not old, it stands to reason that 35 is also not old. Thanks, Dennis!
On the other hand, the swing between 15-year-old me and 35-year-old me is the same swing that’ll bring me to 55. Yikes. The year 2035 seems way off, but I don’t feel like 1995 was that long ago. I’m sure current 55-year-olds don’t think it’s been that long for them either, and would mock me for being daunted by 35.
I get that. Any friend of mine who kvetches over turning 30 makes me want to say, “When I was your age …”
And yet, most people who are also 35 seem older to me. Marriage, kids, mortgages and life take over for most people by that point. Many friends have drifted away as they’ve moved on.
And yet, people who meet me assume I am respectively blessed/saddled with such things. It’s a safe assumption, one I make all the time.
And yet, I don’t feel any more connected to settled 35-year-olds than I did when I was in college.
And yet, I don’t have much in common with college-age people either.
Too old to fit in and also too young to fit in. At least I have years of practice with that one.
May it feel like 33.