What to expect when you're expecting ... a 35th birthday

Don’t get me started on the topic of dying. Come to think of it, don’t get me started on the topic of being born, either.

I’m turning 35 in a week. So not only am I convinced the end is nigh, I’m also officially one of those “advanced maternal age” women now, which means I’m supposed to be thinking about children and biological clocks rather than Heidi Montag’s plastic surgery or whether Ronnie and Sammi will be able to keep their Italian love affair burning after the popularity of “Jersey Shore” recedes.

Not only that, according to the book, “30 Things Everyone Should Know How to Do Before Turning 30,” I’m apparently five years past the generally accepted deadline for mastering basic life skills, such as being able to wrap a present, drink without getting drunk and — oh look, there it is again — change a diaper.

I’m sorry, but this is just depressing.

First of all, I get extremely jealous when I’m around friends with babies. Can you blame me? Those babies are living my dream. They have an abundance of naptimes, a calorie-controlled diet and a stomach that’s never been tainted with a McDonald’s french fry or sip of gin. They have smooth, non-Botox-needing skin, devoted caregivers, a full-time maid, comfortable clothing in an assortment of soft bunny prints, the benefit of low but measurable expectations and, oh right, all the love and attention in the whole wide world.

I’d change my own diaper to get all this back again — if only I could convince my parents to rebuild my crib and let me move back in with them.

Second, and I know it’s obvious to say this, life is happening much faster than I ever expected it to. I’m afraid it’ll be over before I have a chance to accomplish everything on my list — such as being able to carve a turkey or properly help an older person out of a car (two more of the vital “30 Things” I failed to learn five years ago).

I know I’m being solipsistic and overdramatic about this. I realize 35 really isn’t that old. Although, if this were 18th century America, when the average lifespan was in the mid-30s, I’d be one upward motion away from keeling over at my butter churn right about now. On the bright side, I’d already be a great-grandmother, so nobody would be talking about anything other than my advanced case of needing a modern shower and a lady razor.

Oh, and not to harp, but might there be a nicer way to say “advanced maternal age”? I really think I’d be OK with turning 35 if the medical world would just say something more positive about a childless existence at this stage and not put any undue pressure on the matter. Something like, “Thirty-five? Why you’re just a baby yourself!” or “Nobody really likes that Octomom and her big braggy uterus.”

But no. In addition to having to navigate the rabbit warren that has become my circle of friends, I have to deal with this bizarre and unwelcome “tick tock” that seems to have been set in motion by the baby registry scanners at Target when the truth is, I never really wanted kids. Nope. Not until the medical world told me I’m about to qualify for the senior discount on babies did it ever occur to me that maybe I should decide something before the decision is made for me.

Then again, maybe that decision was made years ago when I whispered in my dolls’ ears: “Just so you know, you were adopted. From a cabbage patch. So no. I will not be changing your diaper, Casey Pearl.”

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