I turned 28 yesterday. This number means various things to various people. It makes my cousins who watched over me when I was an infant feel old. It makes my brother smirk that I’m one year closer to 30 (bring it on, I say. Doesn’t 30 mean I’ll actually have money and not care about stupid stuff anymore?).
But what it means to me is that I am officially romance novel age. According to Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel, I SHOULD be one of the following at 28 years old:
– Slim and lovely with long, shiny brown hair that curls over my shoulders
– The totally competent owner of a charming bed & breakfast in New England. I’m so good at making scones and keeping guests comfortable that it’s not even funny. It makes you want to go out and open your own bed & breakfast IMMEDIATELY.
– Mother of an adorable, not-at-all obnoxious four year old son who’s not even remotely emotionally damaged by the fact that his father was an abusive bastard and we had to go into that underground railroad for abused wives. He’s even going to be ok with the new hot guy who lives next door and comes over to fix my water heater- no, gutters, crap, everything sounds dirty, and ends up fixing, that’s right, my broken heart.
– The daredevil pilot who still doesn’t have her father’s approval even though she’s breaking all these damn flight records (Oh, yeah- and it’s 1935) who then falls in love with her older flight instructor/father’s younger best friend so it’s slightly hot and only slightly creepy.
– A brilliant art historian who finds a map that will lead me to a lost Leonardo sketch but not if the sexy art thief GETS TO IT FIRST.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Belgium for a mad-cap romantic caper with a guy named Jasper. Or Grayson. Or Jake. Or, you know, to the kitchen for another piece of birthday pie.