When I was 16 years old my sociology teacher asked our class to write down on a piece of paper the number that we thought was the very worst age.  I’ve thought back on that moment often and what a snot-nosed brat I was for my response.  I confidently wrote “31.” The teacher, who might I add was probably about 31 years old, called on me and asked me to say why.  My response was that you were either married and had kids and were all “mommy-ish” or you didn’t have those things and were desperate and lonely for those things… and in my estimation both options sort of sounded royally boring.  Now what did I know?  I was 16 and 31 was a lifetime away.  Except guess what?  I totally knew.  I somehow knew that 31 would be, like totally, the worst.  Don’t get me wrong.  This year has brought me good fortune in all sorts of obvious and hidden ways.  Cons: Divorce, loneliness, missing out on expected milestones, lots of crying, more crying.  Pros:  Residency with the 9 greatest weirdos of all time, SLC the promised land, living alone for the first time in the beloved sacred third story yurt, three feet of untracked powder, so much trail running, and… missing out on expected milestones!  Turns out, I’m not mom-esque or wishing to be mom-esque.  So, 16, you win.  31 was the hardest year.  But guess what?  As of 3h and 2min ago it’s a thing of the past, and now I’m on to 32.  I’m twice your age, 16, but not twice your size.  I run in the mountains and not on pavement, I can drink beer legally, and I’ve had sex (sorry mom).  So there.  And 31?  You were great but I’ve had enough of your antics as well.  32, I barely know you, but I can tell that we’re gonna get along just fine.