The lost year

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.



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, "Great! It's like you get an extra year!"



But to me, it's like I lost a year. Where did 31 go?



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.



Now I can hardly keep track of them. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three ... they're starting to blend into each other and I'm surprised at how easily I've accepted that.



Thirty-two. I get to be thirty-two all over again. That's good, right?