I’ll be thirty-seven next week.

I have never felt my age. I hear that’s a common experience; how many octogenarians do you know that say their brains are still eighteen? Thirty-seven is some weird age that people like the Conner adults were on Roseanne when I was a kid. Thirty-seven is, like, an adult.

I’ve been an adult for longer than I’ve been a kid, but even my subconscious is in denial. I had a dream last night. My godmother had some old picture of my biological father, and told me that he had set up a trust fund for when I turned thirty. Dream me and real me know that no such trust fund exists, because while that man has never been a part of my life, I know enough about him to know there’s no secret nest egg anywhere, least of all for me.

But it never occurred to dream me to question the whole “when I turned thirty” thing. That train came and went in 2009.

Age ain’t nothin’ but a number. One which I will continue to deny, forget, mix up, and ponder as I travel further down the road.

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