thirtysomething

Saturday was my birthday. I turned 33, placing me squarely in my mid-thirties. (My rule is the -0, -1, & -2 years are known as the "early" part of the decade, then the -3, -4, -5 & -6 are the "mid" years, and finally the -7, -8, & -9 are the "late" end.) This age is a bit of a hum-dinger for me because I remember when my mother was 33. I don't remember her being 32, or even 30, even though I was born when she was 28 (see photo—doesn't my mom look fabulous just hours after I was born?). I'm also reasonably sure I remember that number so well is because I had trouble pronouncing it correctly, instead saying "thirty-thwee." This was around the same era of my life when my mom had a friend named "Wuth" (Ruth) and my sister had a friend named "Wowa" (Lola).

I think 33 also qualifies me as "thirtysomething," and the TV show by that name was definitely popular at my house in the 80s. I could never decide if I wanted to be like Hope or Nancy when I grew up. Nancy wrote that terrific children's book, but was also divorced and got cancer. Hope was married to Michael, but they never seemed to finish their remodel and she just seemed sort of sad all the time. I really wanted to be like Melissa, Michael's wacky single cousin. You could tell she was wacky because she had that asymmetrical haircut and wore a single huge earring. She was also a photographer, and I dearly, dearly wanted to be a photographer, too. Well, I don't think I turned out to be like any of these women, mostly because they were just TV characters, however well-written. At 33 I am married to a wonderful man, I have a beautiful and clever child, and I still love to take photographs. At 33 I am me.