today

I drove in to work with my hard rock music cranked up loud, screaming through speakers not meant for quality output at that volume, trying to convince myself I'm not old. "Survival of the Sickest" is blaring and I'm singing along, much to the amusement of the truck drivers I fly past at 76 mph on the interstate.

It is the 5th anniversary of my 29th birthday. For someone once convinced they wouldn't make it to 21, that's old. But for someone who has only really lived for the past five years, it's young.

The worst of it all ... a woman's greatest fear: I look my age. I don't get carded, and I couldn't pass for early twenties, even with my flare leg mid-rise jeans and slim stretchy print tops and chunky heeled boots. I hope I don't look like I'm trying too hard to look young ... but I sure don't feel mid-30's. I don't feel like a soccer mom, either, but there's my Vue outside ... a cross between a station wagon and a small SUV. I have parent-teacher conferences today with my son's 5th grade teacher (wasn't he just 5 yesterday?) and my daughter's 2nd grade conference (gosh she was just a baby) is the day after tomorrow.