I have officially entered my late twenties.

Yesterday, I turned 28.  That means I’m in my late twenties.  At 27, I could squeak by with pulling off the mid-twenties.  But at 28, there’s no escaping it – I’m a stone (or two stones – really, let’s not get crazy) throw away from 30. 

In my world, collapsed bridges cause more fear than the thought of growing old, for the record.

In my world, collapsed bridges cause more fear than the thought of growing old, for the record.

Bring it.  I don’t look a day over 20.  Which is proven each time I try to buy alcohol. 

I'm on the right.  Just acting my age...

That’s me on the right. Just acting my age…

 And even if I did look every day of my 28 (+1 day) years, it wouldn’t matter.  Age is just something that exists, it doesn’t define who we are, what we do, or how we act.  (Unless we are in a bar and under 21.  That’s a problem.  Or at the polls while under 18.  Moving on.)  And as I start continue finding little lines around my eyes and mouth and those lines have the audacity to exist even when I’m not smiling, I’ll remember that they are there because I have been blessed to spend the majority of my life laughing and forming those marks of a life well spent. 

After all, as some unknown source has so eloquently stated, “Do not regret growing older.  It is a privilege denied to many.” 

Here’s to you – last year, this year, next year. 

Is there some future (or past) age that scared you?  An age that you thought would be a defining time in your life?  An age by which you thought you’d have life all figured out and under control?

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