I was born twenty-nine years ago today. This isn’t particularly noteworthy–after all, there are few things as predictable as birthdays–except that all day today, people have been trying to scare me into thinking I’m old. Like somehow twenty-nine is the big one. Well, it isn’t the big one, and I’m not old. Telling me that I have one more year left before it all goes to hell doesn’t make me feel nervous, it just makes you a dirty rotten liar. If my eyesight wasn’t completely shot and my rotator cuff muscles hadn’t degenerated from disuse, I’d probably try to punch anyone insinuating that I’m on the downward slope. I’m not on the downward slope; I feel sprightly! So sprightly that I think I’ll go for a walk. Right now. In the dark. Even though it’s midnight and about negative one zillion degrees outside. I may look twenty-nine on the outside, but I can assure you that on the inside, I’m not a day over six years old.