When I turned 20 I was living in St. Petersburg, Russia for a year. I spent the afternoon in the Winter Palace with friends and the sunlight made the falling snow look like silver in the air.
I can't remember anything about turning 25. That year though, only a month or so after 9/11, I flew across "the pond" to visit family and to attend a certain wedding 10 time zones away. The next few years were a very troubled time for me.
When I turned 30, things were a lot better again. I threw a party in a bar that used to be a school, in a room called the history class. In the spring I would again travel to St. Petersburg, this time for six weeks and with a three-year-old. And during the last days of the year there would be an encounter that would change my life. In a great bluster we became so very happy together.
Next week I will quietly turn 35. My personal experience is that it just gets better. I've even accepted the wrinkles and the first grays, because I'm happier now than I was at 30, 25, or 20, when I didn't have any.
I'm having to postpone my party, maybe until summertime. I'm a little sorry I didn't celebrate one third of a century (33,333333... years), so I hope I don't forget this one. Fortunately a friend of mine (whom I have known since my early twenties) has promised to hold me to my word.
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