So, it’s my birthday tomorrow.
Now, y’all who actually know me know that this isn’t really a big deal in my world. The actual day, that is.
And I’m not really one of those people who freak about getting older. (Well, yet. We’ll see how I feel when 30 is approaching.)
Twenty-two was a good year. I got my first grown-up job, I got engaged — a lot of solidly adult things happened. I always say you only have to panic about getting older if you’re not happy with where you are in life. I’m happy. Exceedingly so, for the most part.
But even though 22 was good, for me it was the birthday that didn’t really stick. When people asked how old I was, I never immediately thought “22.” I would think “21” or even “23.” Twenty-two never really sunk in.
Twenty-three sounds a little more grown-up. A little more solid. Maybe that will make it easier to remember.