As 35 approached in the far distance, I viewed it with apprehension and, let’s face it, horror.
I looked back at 30 and remembered actually being excited about turning 30. For me, that was a statement: ‘I’m a REAL grown-up now. You can take me seriously. I am a force to be reckoned with.’
But something happened between 30 and 35. It was mostly gravity.
I’m turning 35 next week, and suddenly I seem to be surrounded by ominous articles about how the minute you turn 35 everything starts slowing down: metabolism, energy, etc. Against my will, my eyes are drawn to the page where my fate seems to be spelled out: likely weight gain, decreased flexibility, you name it. As though my peak health already happened, somewhere in that span of time when I was too sleep deprived with a new baby to notice its passing.
I’ll admit, my upcoming birthday has me feeling a little anxious. I can already feel a difference in the way I inhabit my body now, compared to how I was at 20. My hamstrings are tighter. My hands look older. The furrows between my eyebrows have turned into real lines, there even when I’m not squinting because I forgot my sunglasses.
But also, I’m looking forward to it. At 34 I finally have a haircut that actually works for me and I’m way more cool in social situations than I was then. I feel like I’m finally at a point where I can stop trying so hard. I am smarter, more experienced, and more grounded. Albeit with mushier abs.
So bring on 35! At least I am not catching up to those other old buggers Richie and Tatts!

Hamish McDonald
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