I spent most of this year thinking I was 33. I was wrong. Usually birthdays aren't a big deal for me. Age isn't something I focus on but I remember that I was driving home from something and I know the exact spot on Babcock road where I realized, mid-September, that I would be turning 35 and I've been in a funk since then. And then came Tuesday, I turned 35 and the world kept turning.
I'm out now, I think, or at least climbing up the side. I also knew that the day would be hard because of the marked absence of a single friend. It was. But I lived through that too and the olive branch I hoped for didn't come. But I lived through that too.
My husband found just the right gift, replacing an earring from the set he gave me during our first Christmas. Erin suggested 007 as a good movie so I got an afternoon date in a not-crowded movie theater and then we shared dinner with my in-laws and some family.
I know the narrative of the day is disjointed but it felt that way. It feels like I'm middle aged. I can see my blessings. I logically understand how lucky I am. I feel it in my heart. And in my heart is also sadness for the things I haven't accomplished yet--that I haven't finished a degree, that I don't yet have a child, that I should have a thriving career--all these shoulds. And I've just had to realize that my life is a work in progress. I'm still here. I still have time. And the progress I make is going to be toward goals that interest me. I'm still smart, vibrant, loved and lucky. Even if I am 35.