Alright, let’s travel back in time and visit Kindergarten-aged Julie. Let’s ask her what she thinks Future Julie will have accomplished in her life span, shall we?
I’m just spitballin’ here, but I assume “husband, 7 children, famous author, skee-ball machine in the basement, 12 dogs and Oreos for breakfast every day” are on the list.
Needless to say, none of these have come to fruition (though, to be fair, the Oreo thing is completely within the realm of possibility).
See, I experienced a very surreal moment yesterday. I couldn’t remember how old I was, and how old I would be on my next birthday. It only lasted a few seconds, but the source of my confusion was this:
I will be turning 33.
Holy fuck! How the hell is that even possible? When the shit did that happen?
My hand to God, I never ever freaked about about any age I was turning on previous birthdays. For some reason though, this next one is giving me pause. I wouldn’t say I’m upset, per se, but I am slightly uncomfortable. There are many things I assumed I’d have done by this point. There are many things I never assumed I’d have done by this point.
These combine into the least-appetizing of Life Experience Twist Cones.
Stay tuned, I suppose, and see (read?) how things pan out.
the sloppy copy 
I JUST had that same realization last month. After 32 it’s no longer hip to be hip and you’re not quite PTA material yet. It was popular to embrace your 30’s head-on but now I’m kinda over it. I say we grab a bag of Oreos and pretend we’re 29.
Yes and yes.
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