Exotic yet ordinary

A dozen days into my twenty-ninth year and life hasn’t turned into the tragedy my twenty-eight-year-old brain imagined it would. Actually, twenty-nine feels much the same as twenty-eight, which most days makes it easy for me to conveniently forget that I’ve just celebrated another birthday and have become a year older. Probably not the healthiest way to deal with the marching of time and the whole inescapable stop at the end bit, but it works for now.

I don’t really know why this was the hard birthday. It’s not that I think I’m old now. C’mon. Twenty-nine? Not old. (Remember that, Katie.) It just took such an amazingly short amount of time to reach the end of my twenties, so I imagine it will take an equally short time to get to, say, 40, then 50. And as I sat there on my birthday, telescoping time, I suddenly found myself thinking about death (who does that?), and those conversations with myself never end well. At all. I can hardly wait to go back to some of my more regular distractions, like my weight issues, work, the eventual fate of the universe, my awkward attempts at being a good mom and even more awkward attempts at being a good person.

Thirty will be better.