I will be 39 years old in one week, and I am here to tell you that I do not see how that is even remotely possible.
It sounds, in fact, completely preposterous to me. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be turning 24 again. That was the last age that I turned that felt about right. The rest have seemed progressively more unlikely and disconnected from who I think I am.
But, OK, I do have a 10-year-old son and a 6-year-old son and a marriage that will soon turn 12 and a cat who’s 13. So probably I really am about to be 39. Another sure sign that I’m about to be 39 is that I step into a classroom full of college students twice a week to teach them about media writing, and most of them are about half my age.
Half.
When I tell them stories about my years as a reporter, and I make references to things that JUST HAPPENED (very recently, like in 1999 or 2002), their faces reflect confusion and maybe a little pity for that old teacher lady. Then they have to listen to my geriatric rambling about how this JUST HAPPENED (in 1999 or 2002), and they’re doing the math in their heads and thinking “I was 6 when that happened. Why would I remember that?”