OK, I admit it.

I watch "Laguna Beach."

And for that matter, I still eat Pop Tarts for dinner, read surf magazines and shop at Claire's.

Somewhere, my life has become a series of indulgences in an attempt to defy the reality that I'm almost 31, and everything I used to identify with is now mocked on VH1's "I Love the '80s." It's brutal.

I don't see myself as a thirty something salary-earning professional with adult responsibilities that go beyond washing dishes after dinner.

But I don't feel like an acne-obsessed teenager, either.

So where am I?

At 30, I should be, well, acting my age. Planning for cancer screenings, investing in mutual funds, reading up on Social Security.

I should be eating antioxidant-packed fruits and iron-rich vegetables. I should be following government guidelines and getting at least 30 minutes of daily exercise. And I probably should read more Time than Lucky.

I know this. Really, I do.

And yet I wash down Spam musubis with Slurpees and convince myself that vacuuming the living room counts as rigorous physical activity.

My boyfriend has been trying to change my stuck-in-college mentality. When he turned 30, everything — his metabolism, in particular — started slowing down. Now, afternoon naps are the highlight of his weekend.

He likes to remind me that I can't eat like a teenager anymore. He fixes me spinach salads and refuses to stock our fridge with pints of Ben & Jerry's.

But though he hates to admit it, he's really in the same category as me: denial.

At 35, he still thinks his body can efficiently run on fast food. He inhales greasy breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's before canoe races and swears there are health benefits to Snickers.

Don't get me wrong: He's in great physical shape. He paddles, surfs, runs, dives, skips the alcohol and gets to bed by 9 p.m.

Yet, like with me, maintenance has gotten harder.

Just getting up in the morning can feel like a total-body workout. Even epic surf can't always motivate him out of bed to dawn patrol.

He may be nearing 40, but he's proof that age isn't always defined by a number.

But we shouldn't be afraid of that number, either. Every year of your life counts for something. I've got 30 years of favorite books, TV trivia, bad clothing, worse hairstyles, photographs, trips to Vegas, crushes and breakups that, altogether, define me. And that's pretty cool.

Same goes for my boyfriend, who claims he's got no problem being 35.

Me neither. As long as he's always older than I am.

Reach Catherine E. Toth at ctoth@honoluluadvertiser.com.