Have I mentioned that I can’t ever remember how old I am? I can’t. When there comes a time that I need to think of how old I am, I panic a little because I can’t remember if I’m the age I think I am, or the age I’m going to be. If he’s around, I’ll ask The Boy. “How old am I?” I ask. “How old are we?”

We are twenty-eight. Today, I am twenty-eight.

I’ve lost track of whether or not this feels like an “old” age or not. I am just now getting those grown-up things that real grown-ups get – a full-time job, modest financial security, a wedding and soon, a husband. It’s hard to feel “too old,” even though many folks achieve these things at 22, 23.

Also, I woke up today with a pimple. A pimple! I washed my face before bed like a diligent old-lady, and wake up with a pimple. The pimple of a 16-year-old, let me tell you.

I don’t know how old folks-who-might-still-be-young are supposed to celebrate their aging, but I just did it with food.

First, breakfast: out to the local cash-only dive for eggs, cheese, lox, sprouts, and avocado on an English muffin, with bites of The Boy’s corn bread French Toast on the side. And coffee.

Then, I made myself a birthday cake.

Then, some salmon & pasta & fancy Italian wine.

Then, Pitch Perfect, which is not a food, but who cares.

I am not that old, but I am really old; either way, it’s almost 10 p.m., so it is time for bed

 twenty seven | twenty six | twenty five | twenty four