Yesterday I received my April issue of Elle magazine in the mail.   The issue features an article,  "Capital Cool,"  wherein which the author helps all the fashion challenged women of Capital Hill discover freedom from Leggs panty hose.  This is also the article that sent a gong resounding in my head.  Not because I am overly concerned about the state of fashion in Washington, but because of the women depicted.  Of the seven women featured,  four are 31 and under.  What do these ladies do?  One of them is Deputy director of Domestic Policy Council.  Another one is a speechwriter for Mr. President himself...............and she's only 31.  

  So what's the big deal?   Why would a list of successful women aged 30 and under reach out and slap me over my Sunday dinner salad?  Because, dear reader, I too am creeping towards that strange pinnacle:  the one where I blow out the candles on the birthday cake and declare myself to be 30 years old.   I do not usually dwell on my age.  As a matter of fact,  until this very evening my mental idea of myself felt somewhere between 22 and 26.  Old enough, but barely.  Old enough to pay bills and play house, able to drive to distant cities without permission, but to really be grown up?  Is 30 really old enough to craft the words of a President without adult supervision?  Now my mind is flooded with all the things girls my age could be out in the great blue yonder doing:  performing intricate brain surgeries, successfully landing planes, being fancy lawyers, writing amazing things that win Nobel prizes..................

Tonight, in my head, a bar has been raised.