I’m turning 33 today.

33 is my scary age.

I don’t really know why this is, except that it’s the age Jesus was when he died. I know, that sounds ridiculous, like I’m somehow comparing myself to Jesus. I can’t explain why it matters, but it does. That strong Catholic upbringing sometimes rears its head in strange ways.

The other day, I discovered that Thomas Jefferson was 33 when he wrote the Declaration of Independence. That made me feel marginally better, like 33 might be a good year for writing important things. But there I go again, comparing myself to a major historical figure. (Though I doubt either would want to be compared with each other, let alone to me.)

I’m usually pretty good at deciphering the rationale behind my strange feelings, but my fear of 33 is incomprehensible to me. I could make the argument that year 32 has been the happiest, most creative and beautiful year of my life (which is true) and I have some trepidatious feelings toward the changes that are coming this next year, but that still doesn’t explain the feeling, because I’ve always dreaded 33.

So I’ve decided to be 32 plus one. In 365 days, I’ll be happy to be 34. I hope.

What’s your “scary age”?