Every person has an age that suits them, that fits them like the proverbial glove. Some people were meant to be old. They were born old, and when their chronological age catches up to their real age, everything clicks into place. I suppose that every person over the age of forty imagines that their "real" age was sometime before that, so it's hardly a surprise that I feel the same way. For me it's 34. That's the right age. Grown up enough to know what I'm doing, young kids running around the house, a career still malleable and unformed enough to feel like it's just beginning.

But I'm not 34 anymore. I'm FORTY FOUR. 44. 44. 44. 44. And I've still got the young kids, my career feels pretty goddamn unformed. So what the hell? How did I end up 44 when I'm supposed to be 34?

Screw it. Just like poor is the new rich, 44 is the new 34. I'm not going to sweat it. I'm going to spend my birthday doing a few favorite things.

1. Taking a hike in the woods with my husband.

2. Working on my novel. In the same room as my husband.

3. Driving children to and from tutoring appointments. (OK, that's not voluntary. But whatever. It's my life, and I get to listen to a lot of NPR).

4. Having dinner at Chez Panisse with the entire brood. The little ones have never been, obviously, but the menu is so simple and delicious I'm not worried about them having a hard time finding something to eat. After all, Rosie's new favorite food is cardoons.