In case you missed it, which is entirely possible with me being one of the few people without a Facebook account to naggingly remind you about it, yesterday was my birthday. Yesterday I turned 33. That is 1/3 of the way to 99. That is halfway to retirement. 30 didn’t feel that old to me, but 33 does. I am now a good chunk through my thirties and I obviously think in fractions and the fractions this year don’t lie. I am no spring chicken. In fact, I’m closer to that tired old hen that has quit laying eggs.
Getting older is no big deal, of course. It’s inevitable and means growth and maturity, if you’re doing it right. But I am not your average 33-year-old. For one thing, I work a minimum wage job. I am still chasing a dream that most people would have given up on a long time ago. I am still emotional and irrational and moody and impulsive. I have not outgrown many of youth’s traits, but instead, I drag them into adulthood with me, which of course slows my speed toward maturity-my gait weakened to a crawl.
My favorite gift I received is this necklace Steve bought me – it is an arrow that is a little bent and it signifies me perfectly. Bent arrows are slower, they are wobbly, and they don’t head straight for the target like straight arrows do. Bent arrows are hard to direct and frustrating as all hell – but they can still be used; they just require a bit more patience and guidance.