I am thirty-eight today. And rather than discussing anything else with that number (revolver cartridges or bands), I’ll write about something more important to me.

When I turned twenty-two, I was in college, scrambling to finish in one more year, working full time and taking eighteen credits a term. It was nuts. I don’t know how I stayed on top of it. I realize now, of course, the if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now, that it was nothing like the issues that came with having special needs kids, the single parenting, the working, the just-trying-to-get-through-the-day. But I certainly wouldn’t say that working my way through college was a cakewalk compared to parenting. At the time, it was a lot. It would be a lot at any age. And I’m sure glad it’s behind me.

So on my twenty-second birthday, I got up early, went to class, came home, worked on a paper, then went to my job as a clerk at a large chain drugstore. I walked into the back to clock in, and my boss called me into her office. “I see it’s your birthday today,” she said. “How old are you?” When I told her, she waved me off and said, “Aw, you’re a baby!” I walked out of there thinking, Hmm. How old do you have to be to get some respect? 25? 30? 40? I thought at that stage of the game, working my way through college, I’d earned at least a little of it.  

And now, sixteen years and a degree, a divorce, two kids, and a house later, I think I know what she meant. I feel like calling up that old boss, or walking into her office, and saying, “I’m 38 today. Am I there yet?” I’d like to think so. Because I finally realized that she was right. I didn’t get it at the time. I didn’t understand that it isn’t how busy we are or how old we are that earns us respect. It’s who we are. “Thirty-eight” might precede “Special” if you’re a band or a gun, but me? I’m singing with Aretha. She had it right all along.