Yes, the rumors are true. I’m now 28-years old. I remember one Jessica Simpson, in her prime, some may say, telling her parents that she was upset to be turning 23. Because it was almost 25. Which is almost her mid-twenties. Well I’m kind of upset to be turning 28, because it’s almost my 50s. Yes, this makes sense to me.
Twenty-eight felt very heavy to me, and I couldn’t figure out why. I usually don’t worry about my age too much, except for my 20th birthday when I had a serious meltdown, and when my mom asked why I told her it was because I knew I was never going to be a professional tennis player. I’ve never played organized tennis, and I’ve never been very good when I’ve tried. But for some reason I knew that 20 was the cutoff for any dreams I might have about winning the Grand Slam or returning a Venus Williams serve without it literally making a tennis ball-size hole in my stomach. Twenty is just too old to try to do something like that. Man, that stayed with me for days.