Well, this is it.

This past Saturday I turned 29.  The last of my twenties.  I officially have less than a year before I become a thirty-something.  OMG I think a piece of my heart died.  Seriously?  That's where I am?  Coming up on 30???

I'M TURNING 40!!!  In eleven years . . .  BUT IT'S THERE!

It's there.  Right there.  I'm coming up on the bottom of the hill.

This will have no bearing on my want to read YA.  It's still what I write so I'd be a pretty big dumbass to forgo it because I'm going to need to start buying speciality products for thirty-somethings soon.  Which I still won't buy because I have the skin of a sixteen-year-old without it being sixteen-year-old skin.  Hi and welcome to eczema if I use anything harsher than Dove sensitive bar soap.  Or that I have a chest of a ten-year-old boy.

What difference does age make?  Other than cheaper insurance rates and the societal pressure to be a big kid?  I have a squeezy toy in my cube where its eyes bug out when you squeeze it.  I thumb my nose at big kids.

But I'm still freaking out about the impending thirty.  Gone is the decade of no longer being a teenager, legal drinking and car rentals without heinous fees.  That enters into the old hat territory along with trying not to gain weight eating an extra M&M.

I expect to have a few Sally moments in my future.  They can't be helped.  Aging = basketcase.  What can I say?