Count my rings

My birthday is next week.  I've never cared about getting older.  In fact, turning 30 was awesome, I enjoyed feeling established and since I've always been a little mature for my age, it was nice to finally not feel like I should be out partying or whatever.  When you're 26 and would rather stay home and watch a movie or read a book, you kind of feel like a loser.  When you're over 30 it's justified.  'Cause you're kinda old.  Right? 

I love Jersey Shore, Kid Rock, Metallica, candy, dancing at a dark party after a few drinks to music with horrible language, and grape soda.  How the hell can I be turning 35?  35 year olds don't like that stuff.  Moms don't like that stuff.  Not only am I a mom, I'm a mom 3x over.  It just doesn't jive.

So anyway, turning 35 next week is really no biggie... except for this.  Holy shit, ya'll.  When did this happen?  I feel like a big redwood tree and these are my rings.  Count them and you can determine my age.  Getting older is so awesome in a lots of ways and kinda sucks in others. 

Oh, and as Chris so kindly pointed out, the day after my birthday this year I'll be closer to 40 than 30.  He's kind of an ass sometimes.

Each wrinkle represents 5 years apparently.

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