33

In exactly two weeks, I will be turning 33. How did this happen? I mean, I understand the whole, every year I get older thing, but 33? That’s three years past 30. I don’t feel 30, let alone 33.

On the bright side, I’m told I also don’t look 33, which is good for my ego. Though, there was I was speaking with a student (I work in an advising office at a university), and somehow we got onto the subject of age, and she asked me how old I was. I said over 30 (I think I was 31 at the time), and she replied, eyes wide, “I didn’t think you were over 24!” That would have made me feel pretty good, except for her tone of voice, which made me feel like she thought 24 was older than dirt, so anyone over that… well, you get the idea.

I really don’t know why 33 is bothering me so much. I had no trouble turning 30, which might have been due to the distracting possibility of getting a niece as a birthday present (which we missed by 21 days) and a surprise party that really wasn’t a surprise (it’s a little clue when your mom calls and asks, “If you were going to invite some friends to a birthday party, who would you invite?” She’s the sweetest person you could ever hope to know, but stealthy she’s not). Now, in a little over a month, my niece is turning 3—that little baby girl is now running around the house, telling stories about princesses, and stealing my shoes so I can’t go home when I come to visit. (Last night, after I chased her down for my shoes, she practically shoved my mom out the front door and stood in the doorway with her little arms out and said, “No, Aunt Kris, you can’t go home!” Have I said how much I love that little girl?)

To add insult to injury, this year is my 15^th year high school reunion. Seriously? When someone says “about 10 years ago…” I still think of the 90s. And I caught myself referring to a group of high school students as “kids” the other day—as in, “Don’t those kids have any sense? It’s 30 degrees out, and they’re wearing shorts!” (Which I have also said in reference to a few college students wearing flip flops in the snow). I fear a whipper-snappers reference isn’t far behind.

I now worry about dressing and acting too youthful, and I even questioned my planning to hang out with some of the peer advisors at work tomorrow night. Granted, their supervisor (my sister-in-law) and her two munchkins are going too—which is one main reason I’m coming along; when the munchkins outnumber the adults they’re familiar with, it’s not good—and the peers are pretty cool (and I think they think I’m pretty cool since they were psyched I’m coming), but I start to worry that I’m the creepy older person that wants to hang with the young kids because she thinks she’s still one of them.

But I don’t feel that old! I feel like I’m still in my 20s! It probably doesn’t help that I’m back to taking classes (towards the Master’s I swore I didn’t want or need, and still don’t really want but pretty much have to get), so I’m a college student again, and I work at a university, supervise 5 student workers, and generally feel that I can’t be that old, because I was supposed to have my act together by this age, and I’m so not there yet.

A bright spot is that one of my best friends is exactly one week older than I am, so she will be turning 33 a week before I do (ha HA, Angie!) and, thus, can shed some experienced light on the wonderful world of 33. Pointing this out to her, repeatedly, also makes for fun times and lessens the blow, and since we haven’t lived in the same state since sophomore year of high school (which, I am forced to remember, was 17 years ago), I fear little retribution.