Today I turned 29. I didn’t do much to celebrate since I had to go pick up my car from the dealership. They had replaced the battery, and for the job, they were asking 2,000 dollars for both the part and the labor.

“It took you ten fucking days,” I said. “You’re gonna charge me that much for fucking snail work?”

“Look, lady,” the man at the desk said. “These parts. They cost a lot of money.”

“You get some kind of sick pleasure out of this? How the fuck have they not replaced you people with bots yet? They’ve already started with a fully-AI DMV in Schaumburg. You motherfuckers should be next.”

“You can get the car back first. We’ll send you the bill.”

“Fucking pricks.”

The prick went away from the counter to take care of someone else, and I went off to the waiting room to sit down while they got my car ready. An ad came on the TV for a new anti-aging device. It showed three young women who looked no older than twenty partying away. It then showed individual shots of each woman, displaying their real ages: 39, 43, and 52. The ad explained that it was a device to replace the pituitary gland and change the way hormones affect the body. I didn’t understand it too well, but since I’m nearing 30, it stuck with me. The reality of me getting older is beginning to set in. 

If some kind of technology like that existed when I was younger, maybe I wouldn’t be out here. Maybe I would have gone into acting. Maybe I could have had a longer career than some of the greats like Monroe or Mae West. Maybe I could have written a book about it when I turn 80 and not look a day over 19. 

That’s one of the things I love about my Paris. I might grow older, but he stays the same.