I’ve always wanted to be 35. Always. The earliest I can remember having the thought was when I was thirteen. Become a teenager was a real tragedy for me. I didn’t want to be belligerent, smelly, rebellious, angry, foolish, awkward, etc. That’s what teenagers are like, I reasoned. I was already insecure, afraid and in constant amazement of the complex machine that is adult civilized life. I didn’t want to inch closer to it and go through all of that coming-of-age/first love/college junk. I wanted to skip right to the good stuff. I wanted to be 35.
I think the movie BIG came out around this time.
At 35, I’d have a wife and, possibly, kids. I’d have that figured out and I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore if it was even possible for anyone of the opposite sex to fall in love with me. I’d be done–completely–with school. I’d know what a mortgage is and how to pay it. I’d have a job. Better, I’d know what my job was supposed to be.
I’d know more about God. Maybe I’d even know if he really exists and what he wants me to do in this life.
At thirteen, these were all impossibilities. Giant puzzles I had to put together by myself without the aid of a picture.
35 was the age at which I’d have everything figured out. The Goal Age. Today, I hit it. And all those things my thirteen-year-old self thought he might have accomplished by January 20th, 2012?
Done, every single one. And then some. Thirteen-year-old me would be so jealous.
I hope I never take for granted all that I have and all that I’ve learned. I’m glad I didn’t get to skip those in between years. I think appreciation comes from struggle and hard work. I’m grateful and glad to be 35 in a way thirteen-year-old me never could be.
Can’t wait for 36.