Twenty-eight is a dangerous age. The syllables themselves, when pronounced slowly, t-w-e-n-t-y-e-i-g-h-t, hint the beginning of an ominous era. This era, inches away from the age of twenty-nine, is your one-way, non-refundable ticket into the downward spiral commonly known as “The Thirties”. 

Try it, my friend. Say it out loud. Lay it out slow. Twenty-eight. No other number comes even close. I know you’re gonna say, “How about twenty-nine?” At twenty-nine, you see, you have lost the right to complain. By that age, you pretty much know you’re quite deep into this abyss. You signed up for this. It’s like complaining about a terrible movie when you’ve already suffered halfway through it. Either you quit early or you stay till the end. Don’t complain halfway, alright.

And the elderly folks, who at this point are seriously perturbed, shaking their head, muttering, “Boy, you don’t even know what thirty-four, what thirty-eight, and what forty-four feels like..”, do inspire sympathy in my heart but I’ve only this to say in return, “Yes, you’re right. I don’t even know. Because I’m not there yet. All I know is how twenty-eight feels like, because it happened recently, only last month.”

In the mornings, there’s this occasional gray strand of hair that stares back at me from the mirror, arresting my thought-process, disrupting my toothbrush’s rhythm. In the evenings, a weariness begins to grow over me, precisely when the clocks strike ten as if time and slumber had a secret collusion of their own and their sole motive was to lull my life into a peaceful, eight-hour long death. No more can I push my sleeping patterns beyond the respectable and appropriate routine prescribed for adults, no more can I afford to die for less than eight hours every night and still carry on the show.  No more.

Twenty-eight, my friend, is a dangerous age.

However, you made it this far, safe and secure like a carefully wrapped present, sent from the past, so a person can also argue that it may not be that bad of a thing, after all. And this very person, this devil’s advocate, could further argue, in an interfering but polite manner, “Why, sir? Why do you discount the privilege of making this far? Why, do you not appreciate the beauties of this cosmos that you were allowed to stumble through and the adventures that are waiting to receive thy presence? Why sir, why discount all these in such a convenient yet thankless manner? Twenty-eight, and every age, in fact, is a beautiful age!”

I won’t argue with my devil’s advocate because firstly, he may actually have a point and secondly, he’s a little too persistent to be argued with.

So, you, yes you, dear reader, dear friend, help me out. And help me decide. At twenty-eight, should I be scared or should I be grateful?

If you can’t choose a side, consider pronouncing the following syllables: “twenty-eight”. Say it out loud. Lay it out slow.