Snoop is 50. I’m 38. F*ck.

As a Millennial, I am well trained to look for fault in damn near everything. It’s a self preservation mechanism that a generation of tech-savvy but exhausted people have created so that we don’t have to spend our days feigning happy that — according to the internet — everyone else is thinner, richer, happier, more fulfilled (with better looking children, higher bred dogs, and more pristine kitchens) than we are.

That said, Sunday’s half-time show was perfect. It was a balm to my weary soul. Remember when your favorite babysitter would come out of retirement to babysit after going off to college? That’s the feeling. Safe. Held. Magic.

Old.

I’m turning 38 on Friday. Objectively, I know I’m young. Young-ish, at least. My employer recently defined young as 18–36, and I hadn’t realized how fragile my vanity had become until that email. I didn’t realize that youth was a thing I aspired to, or even mourned, until someone told me statistically mine was gone. And then everything seemed to happen all at once.

I’m closer to 50 than 25. My 20 year high school reunion was announced for this fall. My husband is turning 40. And my phone froze during a FaceTime call with my mother and, for a brief moment, she looked exactly like my grandmother.

We’re all getting older. And I’m handling it poorly.

It feels like time speeds up as you age. As a child, Christmases seemed to have years of time between them. The time between Christmas and my February…