Faute de Mieux

I'm twenty-nine today, and I don't like it one bit. Twenty-nine the point at which many women deliberately stop counting birthdays, because, supposedly, thirty is "old". Personally, I ain't scared of thirty - it's twenty-nine that makes me nervous. My main dread of the age has been that when I tell people I'm twenty-nine, they'll think I'm lying, because so many women do lie about being twenty-nine, and I haven't got a babyface to lend credence to my claims. And it would suck if people thought I was lying because it's not as though I'm afraid of the big three-Oh. Not me. I think it will be grand not to be a "twentysomething" anymore. When I reach thirty, I will be fabulous. I will kick thirty's ass and make it work for me; I'll make thirty my bitch.

For a while, I thought I'd lie and tell people I was thirty-five, just so they would tell me how young I look. So I tried it last week, and, much to my embarasment, I recieved no expression of shock, and no declarations that I looked younger than thirty-five. Damnit! I guess I'll just be twenty-nine.