Yesterday I turned 58 years old.
In a strange incident a few days ago at work, my imminent birthday was mentioned and the Young People at work said, “You mean your ‘27th’ birthday, right, Ellen?”
I was perplexed. Are people still doing that nonsense where you don’t acknowledge that you left your twenties? Plus, the joke is the eternal 29th birthday, not 27th.
Then, later, because they are Young People, they texted me “Happy 27th birthday” wishes.
I texted back, “I look really bad for 27.” Which is true. God forbid a person in their thirties look like her face has slipped its tethers and is floating on top of her bone structure, soon to be dragged inexorably down by the repetitive swing of her wattle.
Balancing the sprouts of grey and the frown line are skills I never dreamed of at 27.