Halfway to Forty

An acquaintance once admitted that she struggled with turning thirty-five.  "It's like halfway to forty, you know?"  She looked at me, waiting for my agreement. 

I opted not to correct her math and mention that she actually was halfway to seventy.  It was her birthday, after all.  Besides, anytime I hear someone use the word "halfway," my internal life soundtrack immediately starts playing Livin' On a Prayer and I get happily distracted.

Months have passed since that conversation, and here I stand -- halfway to seventy myself -- on this very day.  (Actually, I'm sitting, but it sounds better, metaphorically speaking, to be standing at this impressive tipping point in my mid-thirties.)

As someone who mostly has loved my thirties, I'm not bothered by this birthday one bit.  Of course, I should admit that I did a double-take last week when I tried to recall how old I actually was, a moment that caused me to nod along with understanding when I recently came across this excerpt from Water for Elephants:

When you are five, you know your age down to the month.  Even in your twenties, you know how old you are.  I'm twenty-three you say, or maybe twenty-seven.  But then in your thirties, something strange starts to happen.  It is a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation.  How old are you?  Oh, I'm -- you start confidently, but then you stop.  You were going to say thirty-three, but you are not.

You're thirty-five.  

Yes, I am thirty-five.  As far as I can tell, halfway to "forty" is looking good.