Kate's Not Ready Yet To Be Age 35

One of my theories on life has been demolished. It was put to the supreme test and it failed miserably. What was the celebrated theory and what caused its failure?
The theory is about age, numerical age. I have asserted that it never bothered me. So far I have been able to accept gracefully each additional year. There seems to be redeeming qualities in every phase of life.
Shortly after my 30th birthday I had a philosophical discussion on age with Ted Reeder, who's slightly over 40. He said he was glad he wasn't 30 anymore, compared to what he knows and has experienced now, ten years later, he was very naive at thirty. I said I felt the same way about being twenty again. I had enjoyed that time. I relished every two-for-one beer at the Golden Buda and every verse of "Chicago" sung at Bill Bailey's Banjo Bar, but it was a time of restlessness. The mellowing which comes with an additional ten years has given me a feeling of contentment.
Seems like a logical theory, doesn't it? I thought so until March 1st when I brought my morning Washington Post into the house. If you will recall in my column previous to this, I related my experience with Richard Cohen, the Post columnist who came over to test out my kitchen as the new place to see and be seen. Well, he also did a column about our get-together which appeared March 1st. I knew that it would be in, we had discussed it over the phone. Naturally, looking for Richard Cohen's column was my first order of business that morning.
After quickly ruffling through the papers, my eye hit on his column which was entitled, "The Reason Why Women Work." I was delighted this very popular Washington Post columnist (who's also a father) was writing about me (a mother) who's also a columnist. As I rapidly scanned the article (with plans to reread each printed word) it happened. Right in the third paragraph: Kate Cavanaugh, 35. I was crestfallen. How could this happen - I'm not 35, I'm 31 There's a big difference there. I had to do something, but what? Hold the presses? Too late for that. It was 8 a.m. The doorsteps in Washington had received their Post at least an hour earlier. I decided to make the best of it.
It wasn't easy. According to my theory on age, being depicted as a 35-year-old shouldn't bother me, but it did - a lot. All of Washington thinks I'm four years older than I am. It's written in the paper - why shouldn't they believe it? I've never gone around telling people my age, or asking theirs. It seemed to be bad manners, but now I feel inclined to initiate every conversation with "I was born in the late forties," or "my older brother and my older sister helped my parents celebrate their 35th anniversary last month," especially if Richard Cohen's story is mentioned.
There's probably someone reading this who is 35 and who is thinking, "What's her problem? I'm 35 and it isn't that bad." Of course it's not if your 35 but I'm not and I'm not ready to be. I will
be in four years.
After reflecting on Cohen's faux pax I realized what bothered me the most. At this point, at 31 years, I'm just where I want to be. I'm in the passage where I don't have time to read the book Passages. In four more years, however, my children who are six years and under will be ten years and under and I'll be in a different passage. Besides, according to Ted Reeder's philosophy, I'm not smart enough yet to be 35.
March 22, 1979