As I celebrated my birthday with my mom’s side of the family at a fancy dinner, I sipped my first bellini and felt great. You see, for the last several months, I had been saying, “I am 27” so that when I turned 27 in February, I wouldn’t be at all emotional. I would be prepared, you see.
In between my first and second bellini, I told my family this. They paused, forks in the air. “Nina,” they said seriously and levelly. “You are turning 28.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied quickly. But truth be told, I was already panicking because who would know my real age better than the woman who labored for hours to bring me into this world, my aunt, and their mother? Also, math isn’t my forte so if I had to take a wild guess as to who was incorrect, I would have to put my money on myself.
They tried not to laugh at me as they explained that I was turning 28.
For about four to six months, I have been emotionally preparing to turn the age I already am.
Gee, I am so glad I worked so hard to be at peace with the age I will be for less than a week longer.
So for the rest of this week, if I slip, “I’m 28” into a conversation or an email unnecessarily, please know that I am just trying to get to the place where I am cool with being 28 in less than a week.
PS I have really been working on upping my instagrami game. Honestly, I do it because it is fun for me to curate a collection of photos about my life. Through that I am trying to figure out just how the rebrand here will eventually go down (yep, that’s happening this year!).
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