Twenty.

Most people don’t feel older on their birthday. It’s just another day in another year that has some significance, only to you, and then you keep going on about your regular life. You don’t feel any older, not until a significant amount of time has passed. And even then it’s not much. A little more maturity. A little less drama. A little closer to God. And a little farther from your high school years.

But for me, that’s not the case. I always feel older on my birthday. Weeks before March 14th, if anyone asks, I always give them my new age. After all, I’m nearly there anyway. Does it truly matter that I’m only a few more weeks from my desired age? When that day finally comes, I feel it — another year older. More mature, supposedly. More respected, usually.

This year was special. I made it out of my teens and into the start of my 3rd decade. Half-way to forty. A fifth of a century.

Yesterday I felt so blessed with many birthday wishes and such spectacular friends. It was indeed a great day, and a wonderful last year being a teenager. I’m looking forward to my twenties. (That still feels funny to say!)

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