I'm going to be 35 in a week.
I mean, I'm not nearly as famous as I thought I'd be by now. But, otherwise, it's a good life. There's a curly topped baby squirming around in my arms, my husband works at a church and I work at a school so, really, not much has changed since this precise time ten years ago. Except now I live in Utah and have two other boys who call me mama. Or mom. Or the occasional mommy.
I still feel 25 except for all the joints that are bugging me and the fact that I've started to bruise with no apparent cause. In those ways, I am closer to 70. But my maturity level is still a solid, well, 15 (if I'm being honest).
What I'm trying to say is that, for the most part, I don't feel like I'm about to kick the bucket. Second graders, however, have an entirely different opinion of me. Yesterday, while subbing for a class--some of which I've known since I first filled in for their teacher in kindergarten--I was given the following dismal news.
At one point during the day, I heard one boy say to another, dramatically, "I'M TOO YOUNG TO DIE!" I have no idea why he said this. His life was in no immediate danger and I didn't hear the conversation leading up to this declaration.
A girl, one who I've known for a solid two years, chimed in. "Everyone here is too young to die except Mrs. B."
Awesomesauce. (Isn't that what the hip, young, whippersnappers are saying these days? No?) I am no longer too young to die. I guess 35 is the new 80.