“It is dangerous and illegal to walk on the highway.”
—Quote from the Michigan driver’s ed manual
I grew up in Detroit, Motor City, and so my delight in carless transportation has always seemed a bit perverse. But anybody who is a writer knows the feeling. What we do might not be dangerous or illegal, but it can sometimes look a little crazy from the outside.
Thirty-two
Posted by Sharon Harrigan on Nov 13th, 2011 in Motherhood and Other Head Coverings | 0 comments
The other day I went to a birthday party for a friend. That morning, I told my son about it. “She’s turning thirty-two,” I said. “So young.”
Predictably, he said, “Seems pretty old to me.” To a seventeen-year-old, when you’re thirty-two you’re practically in your grave.
I know how he feels, actually.
Thirty-two was the year when I felt the oldest, when every day my mortality hit me more keenly than it ever has before or since. It is the age my father was when he died, and it still seems strange that I should live to be older than he ever will be.
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About the Author
Sharon Harrigan has published over thirty short stories, personal essays, book reviews, and author interviews in publications such as Narrative, The Rumpus, and The Nervous Breakdown. She is also a freelance editor and journalist. A Detroiter by birth and at heart, she has also lived in New York City and Charlottesville. She is currently spending a year in Paris.
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