Last weekend, despite all my efforts to the contrary, I was dragged kicking and fighting into the decade of the thirties.
I have to say, given how frequently it's referred to as such a milestone event, I was rather expecting a bit more, well, oomff. But in the end the darned day snuck up on me in a somewhat anti-climactic manner, squeezing itself almost unnoticed between an afternoon of tennis and a day of telly-watching. The Vish made a comment about my multiplying grey hairs, and I retorted with a comment about his belly (because that is exactly how low I would stoop), but other than that, growing older turned out to be somewhat of a non-event.
I have to say, given how frequently it's referred to as such a milestone event, I was rather expecting a bit more, well, oomff. But in the end the darned day snuck up on me in a somewhat anti-climactic manner, squeezing itself almost unnoticed between an afternoon of tennis and a day of telly-watching. The Vish made a comment about my multiplying grey hairs, and I retorted with a comment about his belly (because that is exactly how low I would stoop), but other than that, growing older turned out to be somewhat of a non-event.
We did make it down to our new favoured bar in the East Village, however, so I could prove to everyone that this ol' geriatric can still down a glass of wine or two.
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