This past Monday, I turned 34.
And I took it hard.
Really hard. Cried myself to sleep that night.
Quoting myself quoting agents, from Musing #6 (the one about Babs):
Apparently, I’m going to “work all the time in [my] 40s.” But, until my chassis has the decency to age like fine wine, I’m saddled with ”the body of an Ingénue and the face of a character actor.”
Logically, one would think I’d be ever more thrilled with each passing year. Only six to go before 40, right?
Unfortunately, quoting my Tinman, from a recent gChat:
…you look like a kid…
But that, obviously, doesn’t fully explain my tears. It’s really more about never having imagined I’d still be a legal secretary at 34. Not that there is anything wrong with being a legal secretary. I’m very grateful for the good job I have, and I’m great at what I do. I enjoy doing things at which I am great, particularly when they’re salaried with full benefits. I just never imagined I’d still be doing it 12 years after college.
Oh, well. I’m done crying now. Can’t do anything about the 12 years. Nor can I help the kid-looking issue. That’s just what I look like. (And I know there are far worse things to look like at 34.) But there are things within my capacity to control. So my goal for this year is to not cry when I hit 35…and, ideally, be well on my way to true working-artist-hood.
Best bust my butt henceforth!
Best. Butt. Ever.
Tune in next Friday for the answer to this question, recently posed to me over Facebook by the man who played “Mr. Bumble” to my breast-bound, be-wigged orphan boy in an early-90s dinner theater production of Oliver! (I did not mean to exclaim that sentence. The punctuation is part of the actual title, which is very annoying when the title ends a sentence!):
Are u doing any acting or has your writing taken u by storm (sic)
Until then, “Damn the 2×4, full speed ahead!”