On Being 30 (ok 35)

I am no longer a “spring chicken.” More importantly, I don’t really mind. This is monumental since on the eve of my 30^th birthday, five years ago, I, for lack of a better term, “freaked the (f-expletive) out.” I hadn’t accomplished “enough”; I didn’t have “sufficient” children; I didn’t earn “enough” money; I wasn’t the “right” dress size; I hadn’t published “that” book and my house wasn’t the “perfect” dream home. In summary, I just wasn’t where my 20 year-old-self had envisaged my 30 year-old-self being.