For some reason, turning 35 is a much bigger deal for me than turning 30. Maybe it’s that I’m in living in a foreign country and in very uncertain place with no real sense of direction. Aren’t I supposed to know by this time what I want to be when I grow up? Aren’t I supposed to be grown up?

I know I have a lot to celebrate – I just completed culinary school with top honors, I’ll be working at one of the most prestigious restaurants in the world, and I’m living in Paris. I’ve come a long way since I got my acceptance letter from Le Cordon Bleu. Yet something still seems to be missing.

I had a meeting recently with a young French entrepreneur. We’re discussing the possibility of working together on a project, but when he asked me how old I was, I was almost embarrassed to say. Yes, I'm proud of all the things I’ve accomplished and the knowledge that’s stored in my head, but I don’t think I’m ready to be 35. It’s too close to 40.

I have no desire to be in my twenties again. I enjoyed them and certainly had some rather entertaining adventures, but I had no idea who I was back then. I’d rather be in my early thirties. That’s the age where you’re responsible enough to know better and you still have so much ahead of you. 35 and 40 are far away, and you don’t have to worry about a mid-life crisis for another 10 years or so.

Many people say I don’t look 35, and I have to agree. When I look in the mirror, the face I see looks young with only a few laugh lines at the corners of the eyes. The dark green eyes still have a hint of mischievousness in them and the smile comes easy and often. It’s not a face that launched a thousand ships, but it’s not too bad, and it’s mine.

So next time you see me, I won’t admit to being 35. I’m still in my early thirties. After all, isn’t age just a number not a state of mind?

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