I will admit something to you: I have looked forward to turning 35 my whole life.

17 was a monumental milestone for me – the last year of childhood.

27 was a milestone to hit, and I can’t really tell you why.  But at 27 I just felt like I was actually starting down the path I was destined for.  College was over, I had 2 kids and an awesome husband, a good life and a good idea of what I wanted to do.

30 was also a monumental year, since it was then that we decided to have some more kids, I started homeschooling, we actually *bought* a house, which I never thought would ever happen in my lifetime.  This was a good year to set some stones in the road.

But 35….I am going into our 6th year of homeschooling, we have 5 adorable kids, husband is still totally amazing and I can fit into a couple (large) pre-pregnancy dresses!  Man that took a lot of work, but WooHoo!!

35 is when I feel like I really start aging, and I am so freaking excited about this.

I have like, gray hairs!  On my head!  And one somewhere else.  That one is weird.

I have wrinkles underneath my eyes when I smile!

I can’t lose 5 pounds by cutting out the extra Snickers bar I sneak in, which was so much easier when I was 22, but now I actually have to WORK at being healthy!

I know all this seems odd, and maybe even peculiar, so I’ll explain my logic here:

My mother, my grandmother, my aunt, other women in my life who have grown old have experienced these things as well.  They have used support hose, not to make themselves look thinner, but to hold in their varicose veins.  They have opted for a large glass of Metamucil and Motrin at night, instead of a glass of wine.  They look at breakfast cereals that have extra fiber, and are happy about it.

The women in my life wore beige satin camisoles, slips and bras.  It was the uniform color of femininity, when I was little.  All their undergarments smelled like gardenias, from the bags of potpourri they had stashed in the back of their drawers.

I remember the nights when the women would get together with a bottle (or two) of red wine, an oven full of garlic bread, pots overflowing with spaghetti and a night of Dallas.  

They were in their 30s when I remember this, and their models helped shaped what I’ve always dreamed of:

Being 35, and rocking 5 inch heels with skin tight leather pants and a Corvette.

Now…the leather pants and Corvette are a little out of the question by now, but the dream lives on.  My childbearing years are over, my college has been finished for many years, my husband and I are still rocking the house and our kids are just amazing us every day with something new.

35 is a GREAT year, and I have the shoes to prove it.