It's Thursday afternoon and I've just consumed more than my fair share of Nutella Chocolate Chip Cookies (you can find that recipe here: vivagood.wordpress.com). And after this poor dietary choice (the quantity, not the quality), I found myself perusing People magazine's exhaustive list of 2011's "Hottest Twenty-Five Year Olds." This is the sort of thing that happens when Sam goes down for a nap and I am suddenly left alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. I usually spend approximately three minutes considering what sort of productive things I could do while Sam snoozes and then thirty minutes later I look up from People.com and wonder where the last half hour of my life went. I realize you're probably questioning my ability to make good decisions right now. And you should be.
Anyhoo, back to those twenty-five year old freaks of nature with their zero percent body fat and creamy complexions. I'm fine with them being so beautiful. Really, I am. I applaud them for their perfect genetic makeups, but I must admit that it irks me that they were awkward middle-schoolers (read: 14 years old) when I was busy graduating from college. You may be asking, Why does it even matter? Well, it doesn't. But, for the first time in my life I'm suddenly a bit skittish about an impending birthday and it's making me a teensy bit envious of all those twenty-somethings out there. I realize this means that I am jealous of a number. I want to be twenty-five again. Is that so wrong?
Hm. This is turning into a bit of an embarrassing confessional post here and I'm a little ashamed that it's come to this. I mean, I should leave the overly personal revelations to people who frequent Twitter, but, I currently need an outlet for my thirty-something angst and so, I apologize for any awkwardness you might be feeling for me right about now.
Thirty-three. It looms. It haunts my dreams. It laughs at me when I remember how I used to think that age was no big deal. Who cares that I'm thirty? It's no big thing. I still look twenty eight. Right? But, then along came THIRTY THREE with it's crows' feet and post baby stretch marks (I realize how TMI this is and I'll ask for forgiveness later). Thirty three is mid-thirties for crying out loud. MID-THIRTIES.
Sigh. Another bite of a cookie. Sighhhhhhh.
OK. I feel a little better. However, you probably don't. And so, as an apology for dumping on you like that, I'll leave you with this, a product of my thirties...