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.
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  1.  You know, there's nothing like a nice Bon Jovi reference in a blog post to make me really happy.
    Speaking of happy-  "Happy Birthday!"  (And it was said in my best Frosty the Snowman voice.)

  2. There's nothing like a good Bon Jovi reference in a blog post to make me happy.  
    And speaking of happy-  "Happy Birthday!" (said in my very best Frosty the Snowman voice.)


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