It was my birthday last Saturday; I turned 42 years old. I like being 42. I wish I had been 42 when I was 32, you know what I mean? Actually, if I’m wishing for things, I’d prefer my 22-year-old body, my 32-year-old years, and my 42-year-old everything else.
You know who wouldn’t have wanted any of that? Twelve-year-old me. When I was twelve, I could have written a book called Everything in the World because I knew all of it – and I knew, for a fact, that I was perfection.