A Semi-Prime Kind of Life

Ramblings on the eve of 33

Stella J. McKenna
Sep 5, 2018 · 5 min read
photo by mae noelle, via flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Tomorrow is my birthday and I’m turning 33. Today I learned that 33 is called a semiprime number because it’s the product of two prime numbers: 3 and 11.

The list of semiprime numbers less than 100 looks like this:

4, 6, 9, 10, 14, 15, 21, 22, 25, 26, 33, 34, 35, 38, 39, 46, 49, 51, 55, 57, 58, 62, 65, 69, 74, 77, 82, 85, 86, 87, 91, 93, 94, and 95

Note there are five semiprime ages in your 30's, while every other decade has four (or fewer) semiprimes.

I suppose that means your 30’s are the semi-prime of your life. And 33 is just the beginning.


Or, maybe I’m grasping at straws here…

(Aside: That phrase really takes on a whole new meaning now doesn’t it? I’m looking at you, Starbucks.)

…and maybe the semiprime nature of 33 has no meaning or relevance whatsoever, but I’m just looking for some speck of reassurance that good things are coming.

I don’t know.

But I am pretty certain I’m getting better with age. Confident in that, even. So I feel like maybe I am on some kind of slightly upward trajectory and maybe 33 really is the start of the semi-prime of my life. I’ll take it. Because that means the prime is still yet to come.


Google knows it’s my birthday

and that isn’t even the most concerning part of Googling “turning 33 years old and”, which I Googled because I was curious what other people Google when they’re turning 33.

This is what they Google:

Of those 10 things, 5 apply to me. I’m not sure if that means I’m doing okay or not, but I’m definitely glad two that don’t apply are the mutually exclusive “pregnant” and “still a virgin”.

And if I had to choose between the two, I guess I’d choose “pregnant”. “Still a virgin” sounds far too anxiety-inducing…

I’m also super glad I’m not the only lethargic 33-year-old breaking out and forgetting things. I guess semi-prime comes with a minor toll.


Tomorrow I turn 33, but I could still pass for 21. I still don’t know the proper way to clean certain things, like the inside of an oven and leather shoes. I have one pair of green khaki pants from high school that still fit me and I can’t bring myself to throw them out, but I also don’t wear them much because there’s a hole on the butt pocket I don’t want to get bigger and I also don’t want them to disintegrate, but they are absolutely my favorite pants in the world.

Tomorrow I turn 33, and I like run-on sentences sometimes and also adverbs. I believe grammar rules are meant to be flexible. I believe writing should sound like you’d speak, mostly. I believe I learned this from Vonnegut. Those are just about the only real writing beliefs I hold. (Also: team Oxford comma.)

Tomorrow I turn 33, and I may treat myself to an ice cream cone to mark the occasion. Because I’m still somewhat of a child. Because ice cream cones are best enjoyed in September, when the crowds are gone and the sun is orange hot and hazy but the scent of the leaves is beginning to stir. Coffee Oreo, maybe. Perhaps Peanut Butter Oreo. (Birthday ice cream is often of the Oreo variety.) I don’t think Coffee Peanut Butter Oreo exists, but it absolutely should. With a fudge swirl.

And rainbow sprinkles, of course. Always rainbow sprinkles.

Tomorrow I turn 33 and it turns out 33 looks nothing like I ever thought it would. It’s not married. It’s not a parent. It’s not thriving, exactly, but it’s not suffering either. It’s less wrinkled and less fat than expected, so that’s a plus. It’s a little more blonde, too. It’s confident — but not too much. It’s strong physically, but also super strong emotionally. It’s not in a city (but it maybe still wants to be). It has 57 unread emails. It has fuchsia-colored toenails. It cries less than she used to.


I think 33 feels like it might be okay because it’s closer to 30 than 40. It’s right smack dab in the middle of the early 30’s. And that’s somehow comforting.

It’s like this stage where I don’t need to have it all figured out yet. Because I still have lots of time. 33 is allowed to be confused and take its time. It’s allowed to be a little bit of a wild card. It matters in that it doesn’t matter at all. It can just blend into all the rest. 33 feels safe. It’s cozy.

It rolls off the tongue nicely. There’s no confusing 33 with 37.


People seem to think Jesus died at age 33. So did John Belushi.

And Timothy McVeigh.

That crowd would make for a hell of a party.


It’s 12:01 AM now, but I don’t turn 33 until some time around 8 pm. I feel like it’s right I was born in the evening. Like it’s meant to be so. Maybe that’s why I’m not a morning person.


Instead of wishing each other a happy birthday on Facebook, I think whenever we have the urge to do so, we should instead turn to the person nearest to us and give them a compliment. Just tell them one thing you like about them. Wouldn’t that be nice? You’d get bonus points if you really can’t fucking stand the person nearest to you but you manage to identify one thing you like about them anyway. I think we should all do that. I think it would spread some love and happiness in the world. And I think we all need that.

Don’t you?


Anyway, tomorrow I turn 33 and I think it’s just the beginning of the good part. I hope so, anyway. I have a good hunch. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 33 years, it’s that you should always listen to your hunches.

Stella J. McKenna

Written by

Mystery woman by day. Writer by night. Hopeless yet unrelenting 24–7. I like to contemplate: love, sex, feelings, quantum physics, and pop music lyrics.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade