<p>I turned 32 last week. Which is weird, because all last year I kept telling people that I was 32 - not because I was trying to be deceitful (because, really, who brags about being 32?), I just honestly believed that I had already turned 32. So naturally I assumed that this year I would be turning 33. </p>

<p>When I told my husband this (over a dinner that I did not shop for, or cook or have to worry about cleaning up) he was happy for me, &quot;Great! It&#39;s like you get an extra year!&quot;</p>

<p>But to me, it&#39;s like I lost a year. Where did 31 go?</p>

<p>That sounds more introspective and melodramatic than I mean for it to sound - but really, where does the time go? I remember how monumental each new birthday year used to be - how filled with promise, how different I felt at each birthday.</p>

<p>Now I can hardly keep track of them. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three ... they&#39;re starting to blend into each other and I&#39;m surprised at how easily I&#39;ve accepted that.</p>

<p>Thirty-two. I get to be thirty-two all over again. That&#39;s good, right?</p>
