Watch Me Turn 30, by Holly C.
I'm a 29-year-old New Yorker who inherited this site from my pal, Holly P., to document the final year of my twenties. Right up until I turn the big 3-0 next January, I'll use this blog to indulge my inner-narcissist by voicing the good (I can date men anywhere from ages 21 to 50 without it being scandalous) the bad (I keep getting ma'amed) and the ugly (is it possible to get cellulite on your stomach?!). Here's to waving goodbye to my youth, accepting adulthood and remembering that every ending is really just a new beginning.
the photo for February 2, 2007
DAY 4  |  February 2, 2007
An old adage says that age does not matter, but everyone keeps asking me mine. When I signed up for an overnight boat tour through the islands of Halong Bay, our tour guide, Phrong, quickly asked, “How are you?”

“Good. How are you?” I replied.

“How are you?” he asked again.

“Good. How are you?” I repeated. After eight months on the road, I’m used to random inquiries, nonsensical questions and people wanting to practice their English with me.

“No! No!” he said, clearly flustered. “How old you?”

“Oh. How old am I? Um, twenty-nine,” I say, with only a moment’s hesitation. In some Asian languages, the letter L is pronounced like R.

His eyes widen in disbelief. “You don’t look twenty-nine. I think you twenty. You look like student.”

Aw, flattery will get you everywhere with me. “How old are you?” I counter.

“Two years younger than you.”

Fabulous. Are younger men going to start stating their age in relation to my own? Maybe I’ll stay twenty-nine forever…

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