If I hear someone say one more time that the 30’s are the new 20’s, I’m going to jump out of a window. And not necessarily on the first floor.

In less than a year from now I turn 30. (I’m also a Libra and my favorite flowers are gardenias, if anyone’s taking notes.) I’ve never thought seriously about my age before. Till now.

I’m sick of people telling me that pithy statement: “Age is just a number.” And I’m sick of watching those face cream commercials on TV that encourage me to lie about my age. I don’t believe in reducing the years I have lived on this earth down to nothing, denying my true age until I become one of those pathetic old crones I see on South Beach all the time, the plastic surgery so apparent they have perma-smiles seemingly painted on their taut faces. And besides, I’m deathly afraid of surgery of any kind.

So while, dear reader, I am not thrilled to be turning 30 in a scant 8 months, I will not hide my laugh lines under a pound of Oil of Olay. The gray hairs, however, are another matter.