I read the magazine 17 when I was a tweener. Oh, how I loved all those grown up stories about beachy romances and cautionary tales about cliques and gossip girls. And I loved first person narratives.

In the mag 17, a name (always with an * to denote that real names have been changed) was followed by their age. Denise,* 19, had a perfect boyfriend until she discovered he was a runaway from Seattle and wanted by the FBI. Charlotte,* 21, never learned to read until she was in junior high. Sally,* 24, emancipated herself from her parents after her modeling career took off.

And one thing I remember thinking when I was around 13 or 14 was that when someone was 21 years or older, they were OLD. I mean, OLD. “They probably do the same thing everyday and, like, have no fun,” I hypothesized to my friends about what adulthood would be like. As if going to school everyday and being in highschool was the jazzed up schedule with unpredictable turns each week.

February is my birthday month. That’s right – MONTH. I take the liberty of celebrating the love month. Black History Month. President’s Day. Sometimes Leap Year month. It’s my birthday month. This is the month where I draft my 4th annual State of the Self speech and deliver it to a chosen audience, reflecting on my year of growth, struggle, and achievement. And I’m a dinosaur, according to my tweenie self.

Luckily, though, I feel all the possibility in the world looking at me right now and 32, although ancient sounding to my younger self, right now, never sounded so good.

I’m in my own skin. And feeling quite fabulous.